“There must be fifty people here,” she whispered to Christian.
“Sixty-five, last I heard, and Mr. Fitzwilliam’s secretary was hiring again today.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life, and I don’t know half these people.” She hung back and let Jordan push his way toward the front. She hated crowds. She hated meeting new people. But she’d liked the new Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and she was glad Jordan had let them come up to offer their support on her return.
“Plenty of them heard there was work to be had and came in from other towns. Mr. Fitzwilliam brought some in from Atlanta and such. And you know there’s always some people who drift in for the summer because they want to live on the beach.” Christian wasn’t originally from Amelia Shores—in fact, he talked twangy, like a Texan—but he’d lived here long enough to think he was an expert. “It was probably one of them who nicked the steering fluid line with something sharp.”
“No! On purpose?” She wrapped her hands around her waist.
Christian nodded. “Frank told Mr. Williams, who told Miz Burke, who told me that it happened while Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam were in town with Mr. Four.”
“Mr. Four didn’t do it!” Mia liked Four.
Christian laughed. “Yeah, he is sort of a doof, isn’t he? I heard it was his fault old Mr. Benjamin had to sell this place. I heard Four got into debt to Mr. Fitzwilliam, and this place was the only payment Mr. Fitzwilliam would take.”
“How do you hear this?”
“I take my breaks in the break room instead of the kitchen. You should try it sometime.”
Mia ignored that. “There they are,” she said as the long limo pulled up to the steps.
Like a colorful aluminum can tied to the bumper of the real car, Mr. Benjamin’s MINI followed.
“Mrs. Fitzwilliam is such a nice lady—and she’s married to him.” Christian shuddered. “I guess that proves any guy can get a wife if he’s got enough money. Mr. Fitzwilliam scares me to death.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam scared her, too. He was that kind of man. But he’d been kind to her, more than anyone else in Amelia Shores, giving her a job based on nothing except a stint as a cook at a long-vanished restaurant in town and presenting her to Jordan as a permanent employee. Her knees might quake when Mr. Fitzwilliam was around, but she was grateful to him. “I don’t think he’s that bad.”
“Oh, yeah? Cecily said she got behind cleaning her rooms and he almost threw her out.”
Mia gloated a little. She did have some gossip Christian didn’t know. “Cecily didn’t tell you everything. She got caught taking a nap on the bed she was supposed to be making, and the only reason she got a second chance was that she pleaded a dependent child. That, and the fact that Mr. Fitzwilliam’s having a hell of a time getting enough help, between the tourist season starting and old Mr. Benjamin dissing him all over town.”
They watched as Devlin lifted Meadow from the backseat of the limo.
“Whew. Look at that. He’s picking her up so carefully, like she’s a diamond.” Mia’s heart trilled as it hadn’t since the day she’d fallen in love with her louse of a husband. “And we didn’t even know they were married.”
“That’s because it was a runaway marriage. Her folks are rich—”
“I thought they were poor!” Because Mrs. Fitzwilliam didn’t seem like a rich girl. She was too nice.
“I heard they were rich.”
“Does anybody really know?” Mia felt as if she were talking to one of her kids.
“C’mon, that makes sense, because her parents didn’t want their little darling marrying that carpetbagger.”
Sometimes Mia didn’t much like Christian. “Mr. Fitzwilliam is not a carpetbagger. He’s from Charleston!”
“He’s buying up every piece of property he can get his hands on and make a profit with. What else does a carpetbagger do?” She tried to object, but Christian talked over her. “Plus, he’s a bastard, and the man who got his mother pregnant was a bigger scoundrel than Mr. Fitzwilliam any day.”
“I heard that, too.” Folks were stretching to touch Mrs. Fitzwilliam as Mr. Fitzwilliam carried her past.
Four followed them. He darted a look around and hunched his shoulders. He wiped his palms on his trousers.
Mia hated to admit it, but he looked guilty of something. She hoped not; he wasn’t a good man, but he was a nice man.
“You can’t blame her folks for not wanting that pretty girl to marry that mean son of a bitch.” Like a boy caught tattling, Christian ducked when Mr. Fitzwilliam glanced his way.
As Mia said a silent prayer for Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s recovery, she watched the way Mr. Fitzwilliam cradled his wife. The way he looked at her, and her all covered with white powder from the air bag, with dirty hair, and sporting a bruise on her cheek.
He was in thrall to her.
“Who knows what she has to put up with,” Christian said.
“All . . . night . . . long.”
“What?” Christian shook his head in confusion.
“That man has a look about him. He can go all night long,” Mia drawled. “Trust me on this.”
Christian looked as horrified as if his neutered spaniel had humped his leg.
Stupid boy. He thought that because she was twenty years older than him and didn’t say much, she was a sexless nothing. She might be plain, and she might be divorced, and she might have been abused, but she recognized a man who knew his way around a bedroom. She added, “Besides, this morning it looked as if Mrs. Fitzwilliam had him wound around her little finger.”
“Yeah, he isn’t the only one.” Christian nudged her and indicated their boss.
“My poor skinny little poulet.” As Mr. Fitzwilliam walked by with Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Jordan clasped his huge hands together under his chin, and his big brown eyes swam with tears. “I will make you a vegetable broth that will cure all your ills and bring roses to your cheeks again.”
“Thank you, Jordan.” Meadow would have said more, but Mr. Fitzwilliam didn’t stop. He headed right for the open front door.
“She has to go to bed now,” he said. “And she’s not getting up for forty-eight hours.”
“But I want to thank everyone for coming out to greet me,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam wailed.
“In two days you can thank everyone. For now, you’re going to bed.” They disappeared into the house.
“See?” Christian whispered. “I told you he’s scary.”
Mia smiled at his naïveté. And sighed with gladness for Mrs. Fitzwilliam.
Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow night. But someday soon, Mrs. Fitzwilliam was going to be one very happy woman.
All . . . night . . . long.
Sam rushed ahead of Devlin into the bedroom and turned down the bed.
Tenderly Devlin laid Meadow down and covered her with the sheets. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.” A line was etched between her brows.
“Lying will only get you into trouble.” He watched her closely. “More trouble.”
She jerked as if she’d been electrocuted. “I’m not lying!”
“You don’t have to try to fool me.” He smoothed the hair back from her forehead. “You can trust me. I’ll take care of you.”
“Will you give me forty million dollars?” she asked truculently.
His hand stopped in midair. “Why do you need forty million dollars?”
“If you trusted me, you wouldn’t care.”
“Right.” She was as cranky as a child. Dr. Apps had said she might be—Meadow had no serious injuries from the wreck, but she was exhausted and stressed. “You’ve got the worst damned headache you’ve ever had.”
“I suppose,” she said sulkily.
“And a sore wrist and a bruise on your cheek”—his thumb skimmed the black mark on her fair skin—“caused by the air bag slamming your hand into your face.”
“I guess.”
“So you can admit that you feel lousy.”
“I don’t feel
lousy.” She hesitated on the edge of major perjury, then gave in with a flounce and a wince. “I want a shower.”
“Not right now. Sam, get some water.” Devlin took the bottle of pills out of his pocket and shook one out.
Sam headed for the bathroom.
“I’m dirty. I’ve got that air bag powder on me.” She rubbed her arms and the powder came off in little pills.
“Tomorrow you can have a bath.”
“I don’t want a bath. I want a shower. And I want one now.”
“As soon as the drug takes effect, you can get up and take a shower.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know what that pill is supposed to do?”
“No. What?”
“Put me to sleep!”
“That is a problem, isn’t it?” Devlin took the glass from Sam and offered her the pill. “But at least while you’re asleep you won’t think about being dusty.”
She turned her head away. “I don’t like drugs.”
“You need to sleep.”
“Then I’ll drink some chamomile tea.”
He handed Sam the pill and the glass. He seated himself on the bed beside her, taking care to put his hip against her hip. He put his hands on either side of her, leaned forward until their noses were almost touching, and said, “Darling, forty-eight hours from now you can go back to charming the staff, scolding old farts, and just generally being Meadow. For now, you are going to do exactly as you are told.”
“And how are you going to enforce that?” Her weary blue eyes shot lively sparks.
“To start with, you’ll take this pill or I’ll climb into bed and make love to you until you’re so tired you’ll fall asleep in my arms.”
“Devlin!” Her horrified gaze flew past him. “Not in front of Sam!”
“Then you’d better take the pill.” Devlin accepted the pill and the glass from his stoic secretary. He helped her sit up, watched her swallow the pill and drink the water, then slowly let her back down onto the pillow. “Now go to sleep. I’ll be here if you need me.”
She turned her back on him. “I won’t need you.”
“I’ll be here anyway.” He tucked her in and turned to Sam. “We’ll work in the sitting room.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam headed toward the door.
“So much for being here,” she muttered.
Devlin went into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and returned to her. “Turn over,” he instructed.
She did, and he wanted to laugh at the rebellious, sulky, wary expression on her powdery face. “Here.” He smoothed the wet, cool cloth across her cheeks, her chin, her forehead.
Her eyes closed in pure bliss.
“Does that feel good?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” She rubbed the back of her hand against her nose. “I’m sorry I’ve been a snot.”
“I wouldn’t say a snot. More of a brat.” He stroked the cloth across her mouth, then kissed her. Her lips were velvety and relaxed, but when he opened his mouth slightly, she responded. Reluctantly and just a little, but it seemed to him she couldn’t help but answer him. “Go to sleep now.”
She nodded, her eyelids drooping.
He stroked her hair one more time, tossed the washcloth in the bathroom, then walked out to the sitting room.
Sam sat at the desk, laptop open.
Devlin had found Sam eight months ago during a search for a temporary secretary. Sam had presented himself as a man who excelled at being an administrative assistant. He’d proved himself invaluable time and again—and never had he betrayed one bit of personal information about himself.
Devlin liked it that way.
Now Sam looked up, unsmiling. “The line was definitely cut. However, a sabotaged steering fluid line is not an attempt at murder.”
“Yes, but there’s always a chance of incompetence.” Devlin seated himself in front of the desk. “Perhaps whoever it was, was trying to cut the brake line—and murder me.”
Sam inclined his head. “True.”
“Who would have the motive to kill me?”
“It would be a shorter list if we asked who doesn’t have the motive to kill you.” Sam wasn’t being funny. In fact, as far as Devlin could ascertain, Sam didn’t have a sense of humor.
“Don’t sugarcoat it, Sam.”
“How about Mr. Bradley Benjamin the fourth? Or more probably, Mr. Bradley Benjamin the third. Or someone in Amelia Shores who doesn’t like the hotel. Or one of the people you’ve angered for one reason or another, and those are legion. Or a rival hotel owner. Or—”
“Okay, I get you. But I don’t believe in coincidence, and the fact that Four showed up within five minutes of the accident doesn’t play well with me.” Neither did the fact that someone tried to hurt Devlin and had hurt Meadow instead.
In fact, that put him in a rage.
“I have been in contact with Gabriel Prescott. He’s sending ten of his top men to patrol the Secret Garden inside and out.”
“Good.” He trusted Sam to handle the situation and give him reports as needed. “Tell me about the gazebo.”
He listened to Sam describe the damage to the gazebo and how long it would take to fix, but all the while he was thinking that he’d pulled Meadow into this farce. He had figured he would use her and set her aside and hurt nothing more valuable than her feelings.
Instead, he’d almost gotten her killed.
She wasn’t his wife, but she was his responsibility, and he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously.
So when he found the son of a bitch who had hurt her . . . he would kill him.
It was as simple as that.
17
The shrilling of the phone beside Four’s bed made him groan and, without opening his eyes, grope for the receiver. “What do you mean, calling me at the outrageous hour of”—he cracked a lid and checked the clock—“nine o’clock in the morning?”
“Mr. Benjamin, how delightful to talk to you once more.”
The smooth, warm, deep Southern tone shot Four into the sitting position. “Mr. Hopkins! How did you—”
“Get through to you? I have my ways. You ought to know that by now.”
“Yes, sir. I do.” The sunlight blinded Four. His head throbbed. But he couldn’t loll in bed while he talked to this son of a bitch.
He’d never actually seen Mr. Hopkins’s face. Right before he’d been knocked unconscious, he’d caught a glimpse of silver hair and the shine of pale blue eyes. And vaguely, through the haze of pain, he recalled an impression of a sagging chin and bent shoulders.
But he recognized the voice. It was the voice of pure evil.
“How’s the hunt going?” Mr. Hopkins asked.
“I . . . I haven’t had much chance to look yet, but—”
“I’m not interested in excuses. I want what you promised me.”
“I know. I know, but I just . . . are you sure it’s here? Or even that it exists?”
“Are you trying to void our deal?” The voice didn’t change. Mr. Hopkins sounded just as genial, just as kindly interested.
But Four had once made the mistake of underestimating Mr. Hopkins. He wouldn’t do it again. “No. No! It’s just that . . . I lived here for a lot of years. There are a lot of paintings, but I don’t think I remember anything like you described.”
“You’re not there to think. You’re there to search. Please remember, Mr. Benjamin, what happened last time you tried to weasel out of this deal.”
Four ran his finger over the notch in his ear, and shuddered. “I remember,” he said faintly.
“I could hold the rest of your ear in the palm of my hand. Or a finger. Or . . . I could hurt someone you care about.”
Four found himself standing beside the bed, phone clutched to his ear. “What do you mean?”
“When a man’s as amiable—and useless—as you are, it’s hard not to care for people. Isn’t it? A man like you makes friends, and that gives a man like me . . . leverage.”
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Four could almost hear the smile in Mr. Hopkins’s voice, and his mind made the logical connection. “Did you cut that steering fluid line? Did you? ”
“Just keep searching, Mr. Benjamin. Keep searching, and no one else will get hurt.”
Four heard a soft click as the connection was cut. He stared at his hand holding the phone. If something happened to Devlin . . . Devlin despised him, but like a brother despised his weak-willed sibling. Yesterday in Amelia Shores, Devlin had put his hand on Four’s shoulder. For the first time since Four had screwed up so badly, Devlin had reminisced about the events that bound them in remembered hardship.
And Meadow . . . she was the most wonderful woman Four had ever met. Of course, she wouldn’t bother to give him a toss—women never did when Devlin took an interest in them—but he liked her. He liked her.
And somehow Mr. Hopkins knew.
Someone here was watching him and reporting back to Mr. Hopkins.
He had to find that painting—before Devlin or Meadow or Four got killed.
“I like Josh and Reva the best.” Meadow shoved another pillow behind her so she didn’t have to crane her head to watch the fifty-inch television on the wall.
“They’re old.” Katie was sixteen, the youngest of the seven maids gathered in various poses around Meadow’s bedroom to eat Jordan’s hors d’oeuvres and to watch Guiding Light.
“Hush up. They’re not old. They’re classic.” Rashida, forty, tall, black, opened her lunch bag, pulled out her sandwich, and used the bag as protection for her lap.
“Here, use the bed table.” Meadow took it off the mattress where she’d shoved it and handed it over. “It’s easier.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” Rashida nudged Buzzy, next to her on the couch. “I told you she likes me best.”
Buzzy shoved her and laughed. “You silly old woman. She doesn’t know me yet.”
The two women were different ages and different colors, but best friends of long standing.
Meadow watched their camaraderie with envy. Her best friend was miles away in Washington, the daughter of Russian immigrants, and Meadow had far too little time lately to spend with Firebird. When the doctors said Sharon was completely well . . .
Dangerous Ladies Page 38
