When Sharon was completely well, Meadow would visit the Hunters’ tiny home. She would be respectful of Konstantine, because he was a typical Russian patriarch—big, strong, and a little scary. She would tease Firebird’s brothers. Zorana would pack a basket full of wonderful food, and she and Firebird would run off into the forest and have a picnic, and Meadow would tell her friend all about Devlin. . . .
“I like Gus and Harley, and they’re classic, too.” Katie sat on the Persian rug, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, an apple in her hand. “I love that she was wrongfully convicted of murder and suffered—”
“Is that Harley?” Meadow used a fistful of popcorn to point at the TV.
“That’s Tammy,” Buzzy said. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, do you mind if I use your phone to call my mother? She’s home alone, and I like to check on her during my lunch hour.” She added hastily, “I already asked Mr. Fitzwilliam if I could use the hotel line, and he said it was okay.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Meadow handed over the receiver, then watched as Buzzy dialed.
As it rang, Buzzy told Meadow, “Mama watches Guiding Light, too, so we do the rundown during the commercials.” Her attention switched to the phone. “Hi, Mama! Did you see what happened?”
“Her mama has MS,” Rashida told Meadow in a low voice. “It’s tough for Buzzy, but they’re awfully close.”
Meadow nodded. She understood. Sharon’s illness had been a trial for everyone in the family, but the anguish and the worry had changed them—the family that had lived to celebrate life seized each moment more intently, showed their emotions more freely, and treasured the time given them.
She liked watching Buzzy talk to her mother, seeing the affection, hearing the warmth.
“Oops. The show’s back on, Mama. I’ll call you at break, okay? Love you, too!” Buzzy hung up and handed the phone back. “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
“Is she okay?” Meadow asked.
“Some days are better than others.” Buzzy used the kind of language that let Meadow know her mother was suffering.
Meadow swallowed. She hadn’t been away from her mother since Sharon had been diagnosed. It was stupid to feel so anxious, as if a week away would make a difference to Sharon’s health . . . but the anxiety was there, growing with each hour.
She wanted to call her, but she feared Devlin was watching the calls that went out of her room. Of course, Sharon always said, Where there’s a will, there’s a way . . .
If Meadow could just figure out the way . . .
The idea came in a lovely burst of genius. If all the maids made one phone call a day off her phone, that would be probably fifty phone calls, and that would surely confuse the issue. She sat up straight and announced, “You should all feel free to use my phone. Anytime! Long-distance!”
“You’d let us call long-distance?” Katie brightened. “Because my boyfriend’s in Wisconsin and my folks get mad when I call him, and make me pay the bill.”
“Mrs. Fitzwilliam doesn’t mean long-distance,” Rashida said.
“Really. Please.” Meadow flashed a big, we’re-all-one-happy-family smile. “It would make me happy to know you’re in touch with your boyfriend. And everybody, don’t forget your families!”
Katie stretched out her hand. “Please give me the phone.”
“I’m next,” Shelby said.
Meadow relaxed against the pillows and hoped her plan would work.
By the time the next round of commercials was over, Shelby had handed the phone to Rashida, who had called her brother in California.
When the show came back on, Teresa, their resident Guiding Light expert, pointed to the screen and told Meadow, “When Tammy was little she lived in foster homes; then her mama got married and she lived with her and her new daddy; then that daddy died; then her mama married a prince, but her real father kidnapped her—”
Meadow had already discovered that the wrap-up on these characters could take an hour, and ruthlessly interrupted. “So she’s a good person.”
Teresa’s perky golden curls bobbed as she nodded. “But so put upon, poor lamb.”
“I think she’s stupid,” Katie said. “Everybody could see that Jonathan was a creep, and she slept with him and set fires with him and—”
The outcry that followed caught Meadow by surprise.
“But he was cute—”
“He was just bad—”
“She’s better off now—”
Passions were running high when Devlin stepped through the door.
His arrival cut conversation as if with a knife.
His cool gaze surveyed the scene. “What’s happening here?”
Meadow lifted her chin at him. “The second cleanup crew is taking their lunch hour with me.”
He’d been enforcing her prescribed bed rest: standing by while she showered, taking her clothes and leaving her pajamas and a robe, having her meals delivered on a tray, shutting the curtains when he decided she needed sleep. Worse, he was always right. Somehow he knew when a headache threatened. Somehow he knew when she was tired.
He had been observing her.
Now she was ready to shriek with the need to rise, to search the hotel, to escape this place before . . . before he . . . well, before he made good on the promise to spend the night with her. Because she knew one thing for sure—this time she wouldn’t escape his bed unscathed. No woman ever had a casual affair with Devlin. It would be intense, desperate, passionate—and Meadow didn’t have time. She needed to find that painting. She needed to get back home. Her mother needed her. Her father needed her.
So why did this whole episode feel less like a mission and more like escape?
“You’re supposed to be resting.” He glanced toward the television and frowned.
He had better not try to chase out the cleaning crew. He had better not. Belligerently, she said, “I am resting. I have been resting for the last forty hours. See? I’m in bed, I have pillows, I have pain reliever, which makes me feel just fine.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Just fine.”
“How does your head feel?”
“Just fine.”
“Vicodin,” Rashida told Buzzy.
“I can tell.” Buzzy’s jowls trembled as she laughed.
“When the second cleaning crew finishes their lunch, you’ll rest,” Devlin said.
“Of course I’ll rest. Just like I’m doing right now. Because the third cleaning crew is coming by for their lunch hour to watch Oprah. Oprah has Hugh Jackman talking about his new movie, and he’s going to sing . . .” Meadow allowed her attention to stray from Devlin, and as she did an image on the screen caught her attention: a gorgeous guy crouched in the bushes and holding a crowbar. “Wait! Who’s that spying on Tammy?”
“Oh, my God!” Teresa came to her feet and pointed. “Would you look at that? He’s back!”
“I don’t believe it!” Katie said.
“I told you so! Didn’t I tell you so?” Buzzy exchanged high fives with Rashida.
Devlin stood in the midst of the screaming women, a lone male awash in a sea of estrogen.
“Who?” Meadow sat on her heels, bouncing on the bed. “Who? Who is he?”
Devlin swam toward her, caught her shoulders, picked her up, and laid her flat on her back. He held her there until she stopped struggling. He locked gazes with her. And he said, “This is not what the doctor ordered, and I won’t allow you to hurt yourself out of pure obduracy. Now you can watch this soap, and you can Oprah, but only if you promise me you’ll rest afterward.”
He was so domineering. So macho. So . . . hot.
He made her want to lock her legs around his waist, bring him down on the bed with her, and show him exactly how rambunctious she felt.
How humiliating to discover that caveman behavior made her want to come right here, right now.
But she was very aware of the complete, riveted attention of the women of the second cleaning crew. Plus she had to face the fact that she couldn’t handle th
e power of coitus with Devlin. Not because she was fragile. Oh, no. Because everything about him—the way he loomed over her, the grip of his hands on her shoulders, his scent of citrus and sandalwood, and that overwhelming air of sexual competency—convinced her she would expire from joy.
And she was too young to die.
“Okay,” she said in a tiny voice, “I’ll rest afterward.”
He nodded once—the jerk never had a doubt she would do as she was told—and stood and faced the room.
Pink-cheeked, Meadow sat up.
“Ladies.” He nodded pleasantly and walked out.
Each head followed his every step.
When he had disappeared, Katie whispered, “Whoa.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Rashida’s brown eyes were wide and awed.
Everyone looked at Meadow with a kind of ripe envy. Nobody paid a bit of attention as the credits rolled on Guiding Light.
Yep, Meadow needed to get away from the Secret Garden. Fast. She had to take the chance she had sworn she wouldn’t take.
She cleared her throat. “I was wondering . . . I would like to, ah, change that painting.” She pointed at a print of Water Lilies by Monet.
Really, what a boring painting. It did need to be changed.
“During my wandering around the hotel, I saw a painting, but I can’t remember where. . . . It looked like an oil of a Dutch domestic scene from the seventeenth century, a lady cooking while her husband taught the children their lessons. Have any of you seen it?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Strong lighting effects, warm colors, a sense of tranquillity and contemplation . . .” She tried to express the elements that created a masterpiece.
Again the heads shook.
She had hoped that if she asked, someone would remember seeing the painting and she could be on her way. Instead, she now risked one of these ladies mentioning it to Devlin. Then he would be on his guard, and he had the resources to find the painting and the capacity to discover why she sought it. Disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth, and she lay back against the pillows. “If anyone sees that painting, would you let me know?”
“Of course, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” Rashida stood up. “Come on, girls. Time to go back to work.”
Buzzy stood up, too. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, would you like us to tell the third cleaning crew you’re tired so you can rest up? For, you know . . . later?” She weighed the last word with significance, and glanced eloquently at the door where Devlin had left.
The others giggled.
“No! Really! I’m fine. Mr. Fitzwilliam simply overreacts; that’s all.” Meadow blushed again.
“Is that what you call it?” Teresa picked up her lunch. “How many more days are you supposed to rest, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”
“I can get up tonight.”
“If I were you, I’d angle to stay flat on my back,” Buzzy said.
As the women left, laughing, Meadow heard someone say, “Amen, sister. Amen!”
18
When Meadow stepped into the office, Sam was already staring at the door with a resigned expression, as if he expected her. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam. How can I assist you?”
“I came to see my husband. I want to show him I’ve completely regained my health.” Actually, she’d come to view the paintings Devlin hung on his walls, because she really needed to get out of Waldemar, hopefully before she spent another night sleeping with a very warm, very active, very horny Devlin.
“Your recovery is a relief to us all.” Sam’s flat tone belied his voiced concern.
But she knew that with the right incentive—and someday she would figure out what that was—he could be cajoled into a smile.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam is busy right now. Would you like to wait?” he asked.
“Sure.” She wandered around, examining the office. “You’ve got a great place here.” He did. The room was spacious and nicely furnished, with large windows looking out toward the ocean, oak file cabinets, a printer/fax/copier, and absolutely no interesting paintings on his walls.
Rats.
She wandered toward the file cabinet. “What did you do before you worked for Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
Sam looked up from his work and glowered.
Hastily she added, “Not that I have gender-biased thoughts about a guy being a secretary—”
“Executive assistant.”
“Yes, executive assistant. That’s what I meant to say. But you”—with your constant scowl and impatient efficiency and your eyes, which are way too observant—“seem to be more of a general.” Or a serial killer. “Someone in command.”
“I am in command. Of Mr. Fitzwilliam’s time and a good deal of his organization.” Sam went back to shuffling papers.
“I’m sure Mr. Fitzwilliam is glad to have you.” And now she knew better than to ask Sam personal questions. Maybe he was a serial killer. “Is there a map for the hotel? I keep getting lost.”
“There’s a stack of maps on the corner of the credenza by the door.”
She nabbed one, folded it up, and stuck it in her pocket.
“And if you remained in your room, you would not get lost.”
It was obvious the guy didn’t like her, and since he knew that she’d broken into the house, and suspected she wasn’t really Devlin’s wife, she supposed she could see why. But that didn’t stop her from trying. “I get bored. You understand, Sam. You’re very fit. You must play sports. Keep active. You must play football, like Devlin?”
“I lift weights and I run. Those are the two most efficient methods of staying fit.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Fun?” His brow knit in puzzlement.
Okay. That line of questioning wasn’t going to pan out. She glanced at the open door to Devlin’s office, and sidled toward it.
“Won’t you have a seat while you wait?” Which was Sam’s less-than-subtle way of telling her to sit down and shut up.
“Sure.” She sat down in the chair opposite him, and smiled.
He didn’t smile back.
“I guess Mr. Fitzwilliam keeps you really busy? Do you always work this late?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s after five.”
“Yes, he does. Yes, I do. So it is.”
Not much of a conversationalist, our Sam. “How late do you usually work?”
“Very late. In fact, right now I need to finish typing up the requisition list for the groceries for the next week.” He turned to his computer. His fingers hovered over the keys.
“That’s a great telephone.” She turned it toward her and examined it. “It’s got four lines. Do you answer them all?”
“Yes.”
“Is that all the lines for the hotel?”
“No. But I do monitor the use of all lines on that switchboard.” He indicated the electronic panel hung on the wall. “For instance, I’ve noticed that your line has been almost constantly in use since about eleven.” He bent a dark frown on her.
“How about that?” she asked cheerfully. “Is someone using it now?”
“Yes. One of the maids, I suppose.”
“I suppose. Can we listen in?”
“It is against the law to listen to private calls in a hotel.”
“Oh.” She barely managed to keep from rubbing her palms together.
“Do you have any more questions?” Before she could speak, he added, “Because these last few days I’ve had very little sleep, and until this is done, and all the jobs after it, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
Testy. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She stared at him while he typed.
She didn’t know if he was dedicated to his work, or immune to her charm, but he didn’t pay her any attention.
Standing, she wandered over to the fax machine and frowned at it. “I’ll bet this gets a lot of use.”
“Yes.”
If only she could get a glimpse into Devlin’s office without having to actually confront
Devlin . . . She wandered closer to the open door.
She could hear voices. Devlin’s deep, distinctive Southern accent, and a woman’s thin, frightened tones.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I won’t let it happen again. At least . . . I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Mia, I don’t understand. Until three days ago you were a model employee. What’s happened?”
“It’s . . . it’s my son.” The cook sounded miserable and embarrassed. “He dropped out of school. He’s getting in trouble. I try to keep control of him, but he’s seventeen. Mr. Fitzwilliam, I told him we’re going to starve if I don’t keep this job, but he said he had a way to provide . . . provide for us . . .” Mia’s voice was wobbling. “And I’m afraid . . . afraid . . .”
“Sit down. Take some Kleenex. For God’s sake, stop sniveling.” Devlin’s voice was a slap in the face after Mia’s miserable recital.
What a jerk. Didn’t he see Mia needed special care right now?
“Yes . . . yes, sir,” Mia said.
With a glance at Sam, typing furiously, Meadow moved close enough to peek into the office.
Mia sat in the chair opposite the desk, dabbing at her nose.
“Mia, are we romantically involved?” Devlin snapped.
She lifted her outraged face out of the tissue. “No, sir!”
“Then blow your damned nose. I don’t care what it sounds like.” Devlin scowled ferociously. “I just want you to stop sniveling.”
She blew.
What a jerk! He really was as awful as everyone said. Meadow ought to go in there right now and tell him—
“All right. Look at me.” Devlin leaned forward and stared right into Mia’s eyes. “Your seventeen-year-old son has dropped out of school, your husband has abandoned you, you’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter, and you’re afraid your son’s involved in drugs. Have I included everything?”
“My son cashed my last paycheck, and I don’t know what he did with the money.” Mia started to cry in earnest and stood. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I know it’s not your job to worry about my family. Do you want me to leave now?”
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