Until that moment, Meadow hadn’t realized she’d fallen into a BBC costume drama. Yet here she was, the upstart who married the prince—that part was played by Devlin—and now had to prove herself worthy of her new role.
She only wished she could take it half as seriously as did Grace Fitzwilliam.
Free-range chickens, indeed.
She considered how best to express her sentiments in a way Grace would understand. “As long as my friends and family are around me, the details are immaterial.”
“See?” Grace gloated at Devlin.
Meadow gave in to her spirit of mischief. “But we can’t have the ceremony until Eddy returns from Europe.”
“Is Eddy your uncle?” Grace asked.
“No, Eddy’s one of my dear friends—and my maid of honor.” Meadow beamed at Grace.
“Tell me Eddy is a variation of Edie?” Grace’s fixed smile expressed pain and hopelessness at the same time.
“I think it stands for Edmund.” Meadow frowned in overdramatic fretfulness. “But he hates that, so everybody calls him Eddy.”
Four looked between Meadow and Grace, then lifted his glass and drained it.
Devlin rose from his chair and walked to the window. He stared out into the garden.
But his shoulders were shaking. Meadow had wanted to see him laugh for a long time, so she piled it higher and deeper. “I’ve known Eddy since grade school, and we promised we would be each other’s maid of honor.”
“You promised.” Grace sounded faint.
“We used to imagine what our weddings would be like.” Meadow relished Grace’s horror. “We always knew he would be a lovelier bride than me—he’s awfully pretty—and I made him promise he wouldn’t overshadow me when I got married.”
Grace fanned herself with her hand.
“Hot flash?” Meadow asked cheerfully.
A chortle escaped Devlin.
Four covered his ears.
“I don’t have anything as vulgar as a hot flash, and if I did, it wouldn’t be proper to mention it.” Irritation tinged Grace’s cultivated tone. Leaning back, she closed her eyes. “I feel faint.”
“Only one thing to do for that.” Meadow pushed back from the table, pulled Grace’s chair out, grabbed her by the back of the neck, and pressed her head down between her knees.
Grace shrieked.
Devlin turned and stared.
“Sorry, old man.” Four threw his napkin on the table. “I’m out of here.” He left in such a hurry he almost burned a trail in the carpet.
“Best treatment for faintness.” Meadow grinned when Devlin covered his eyes with his hand. “Nothing to worry about. She’ll be fine in a minute.”
“I’m fine now.” Grace’s voice was muffled.
“You shouldn’t come up too soon. You don’t want to faint again,” Meadow said.
Grace struggled, but Meadow held her in an untenable position. She could have wrestled her way free, but dignified Grace wouldn’t lower herself to physically fight.
At least . . . not until she was desperate. Then she shoved Meadow back and sat up, brushing at her hair with her hands. “That is quite enough of that. We’ll return to the wedding plans when you two are feeling more reasonable.” She stood.
“Don’t forget we need to discuss the party, too!” Meadow said.
Grace started to close her eyes and put her hand to her forehead in another pretended faint. Then she remembered, shot Meadow a wary look, and made quite a dignified exit, considering the fact that the back of her dress had hitched up to show an incongruously silky pink undergarment.
Devlin waited until her footsteps had faded before he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he collapsed into a chair and held his sides.
Meadow watched him in satisfaction.
Laughter.
She’d bet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that, with all his heart and soul and body.
And amusement had a way of making him look . . . not softer, but more dashing, like a man who understood what it was to live life to the fullest without the suspicion and wariness that dogged his footsteps. When he stopped, he still grinned at her. “Do you really have a transvestite friend named Eddy that you’ve known since grade school?”
“Of course. Eddy’s a great guy. I remember . . .” But she was supposed to have amnesia.
“What else do you remember?” Like a cat viewing a mouse that was struggling beneath its paw, Devlin watched her.
He’d caught her in her lie again. He looked remote again. He’d made her feel . . . uncomfortable again. “It’s odd the things I remember and the things I don’t. I guess I never mentioned Eddy to you before?” She held her breath and waited to see if he’d let her go . . . again.
“No. You never mentioned Eddy before.”
She released her breath. For some reason he still wanted her here. She was safe for another day. “I seem to be distressing your mother.”
“As if you care.” He grinned again.
“I care enough to wonder why she’s so . . . so . . .”
“Judgmental? Overweening? Concerned with appearances?” With his hands on his hips, he looked Meadow over from head to toe, and she realized that Grace might find her lacking, but Devlin appreciated every last inch. “She’s not used to girls who aren’t in awe of her.”
“In awe?” Meadow strolled over, taking her time, letting her hips roll and her legs flex. “Why?”
“Because she’s so good at everything. Don’t you watch television?” He gathered her close.
“Not much.” She didn’t really remember what they were talking about—or care. All she knew was that he held her in his arms, and the warmth they created between the two of them could illuminate Seattle in December. She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hand inside, loving the texture of hair over his soft skin. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his jaw on one side, then the other.
He stood still, eyes half closed, allowing her the freedom of his body.
She zoomed in on his lips and—
“Dears, I have an idea for the party. . . . Oh, my God, are you at it again?” Grace stood in the doorway, her hands over her eyes.
Meadow exhaled in frustration.
Devlin buttoned his shirt. “You should knock before you enter.”
“It’s only evening. This is the dining room. The door is open. The waiters could walk in at any minute!” Grace peeked between her fingers, and when she saw they had separated, she marched right in. “Listen for one second, and then you can go back to doing”—she waved a slender, expressive hand—“whatever it was you were doing.”
“So it’s been a while for her?” Meadow said out of the corner of her mouth.
Devlin jerked with suppressed amusement.
Grace glared at Meadow, then at Devlin.
Then her gaze lingered on Devlin, her blue eyes thoughtful, and Meadow wondered what was going through her mind.
Devlin seemed puzzled, too. “Mother?”
“All right, here’s my idea. See if you don’t like this, Meadow.” Grace panned the room with her hands. “I see the whole party taking place outside. We’ll turn the estate into a carnival. We’ll have games—not electronic games, but games like, oh, knock down the pins with a ball and, er . . .”
She waved her hand at Meadow.
“Break the balloons with the dart,” Meadow supplied.
“Exactly.” Grace nodded with satisfaction. “I knew you would know what kind of games they played at those places.”
“She’s good with an insult.” Again Meadow spoke out of the side of her mouth.
“The best,” he answered.
“I can hear you!” Grace tapped her toe.
“I know, Mother, and it would be best if you didn’t listen,” he said. “If we hold the party outdoors, it might rain.”
“It won’t,” Grace said. “The elements don’t have the nerve to mess with my plans.”
“Wow.” Meadow was impressed. “You c
ould teach a class in positive thinking.”
“Mother, who will we get for the freaks?”
Grace waved him away. “Those will be the guests, dear.”
Meadow blinked. Who knew? Grace never cracked a smile, but she had a keen sense of humor.
“We’ll have cotton candy and those red apples, and the waiters will be dressed like carnival barkers.”
Devlin viewed her cautiously. “Mother, this doesn’t sound at all like your kind of party.”
“Dear, the party has to fit the people it honors, and in this case . . .” Grace gestured eloquently at Meadow.
Meadow contemplated blacking her front tooth and painting big red freckles on her nose.
Grace continued. “The waiters will circulate with trays. They’ll have tokens to play the games, and champagne and hors d’oeurves.”
“Champagne and hors d’oeuvres. That’s more like it,” Devlin said.
“In honor of Meadow, the decorations should be natural—flowers, flowers, flowers! And, as the centerpiece”—Grace flung her arms dramatically upward—“a Ferris wheel!”
In that instant, Meadow forgave her the insults and for barging in at the wrong moment—twice. “A Ferris wheel would be fabu!”
“Exactly!” Grace’s lips puckered as if she had bitten into a lemon. “Fabu was the precise word I was looking for.”
Devlin began, “It’s not the word I—”
“A real full-sized Ferris wheel?” Meadow asked.
“But of course! It wouldn’t do to skimp,” Grace said.
Devlin tried again. “A Ferris wheel is not—”
“With lights and music! How about a roller coaster?” Meadow bounced on the couch.
“No. That would be overdoing it.” When Meadow tried to protest, Grace pointed a finger at her. “We’re going to invite all the best people in the South, and newspeople, too. It will be an event, and we don’t want to be perceived as vulgar.”
“Or free-range chickens.” Then Meadow perked back up again. “I bet we could get Dead Bob. He performs at the Renaissance festivals. Oh, and the Fantastic Juggling Oxenberries.”
“Very clever! A few shows would add to the ambience.”
Devlin could hardly contain his exasperation. “Mother, I appreciate the thought you put into this, but—”
“Listen, Meadow.” Grace’s eyes gleamed. “The Ferris wheel will be the visual centerpiece of the party, and you and Devlin will announce your marriage from the top of the wheel.”
“That’s sick!” Meadow said.
“Sick?” Grace was taken aback.
“You know—awesome!” Meadow explained.
“Ah. Awesome.” That pucker was back. “Another word I was looking for.”
“Ladies!” Devlin’s single snapped word finally got their attention. “There will be no cotton candy. There will be no carnival barkers. And make no mistake, there will be no Ferris wheel.” He stopped their outcry with a firm gesture. “That is my final word.”
29
Devlin couldn’t believe he had a Ferris wheel spinning in his yard, or that it released a shower of flower petals every time it reached the top, filling the air with a whirling, scented snowstorm. He couldn’t believe he had carnival barkers and games, and, providing the music for the afternoon, an antique steam calliope painted blue, red, and yellow, and decorated with liberal amounts of gilding. He couldn’t believe that Dead Bob was doing his act on the stage in the walled garden.
What Devlin really couldn’t believe was that people, adult people, his distinguished guests, were eating and playing and riding the riding the Ferris wheel while shrieking like children.
This grand opening may have been his mother’s concept—but it was Meadow’s fault. Without Meadow’s influence, Grace would have never thought up such an outrageous extravaganza.
Of course . . . the two women were right. He’d already seen three camera crews covering the event, and recognized at least five travel writers taking notes—and grinning. It was a huge success, but damned if he would admit it to Grace and Meadow.
Hands on hips, he stood on Waldemar’s wraparound porch and surveyed the scene.
The waiters circulated through the crowd. Gregory Madison, federal judge, sat at one of the red-stripe-covered tables, eating from a pewter bowl full of cotton candy. Mr. Volchock, owner of last year’s winning Derby horse, threw baseballs at stuffed clowns, while Mrs. Volchock clutched a teddy bear he’d won her. Jessica Stillman-Williams, Grace’s boss, owner of two hundred cable stations across the United States and a ballbuster if ever there was one, wore a balloon animal hat while she stood in line for the Ferris wheel.
Four slouched against the trunk of the great live oak, drink and cigarette in hand, conversing with that girl, what-was-her-name. The cute one from the hospital.
She wore a shirt cut so low she was in imminent danger of fallout, and she was blatantly using her chest as an enticement.
It was working. Four hadn’t once glanced at her face.
When he finished the cigarette, he ground it under his heel, then glared down at it. With great and obvious irritation, he picked it up and threw it in the garbage. Meadow had cured Four of his habit of tossing out his cigarette and leaving it. When she was finished with him, he’d be cured of his cigarette habit altogether.
If she stayed.
Like the call of a siren, the sound of her laughter drew his gaze toward her. He saw her at once, of course. She wore a wide, floppy straw hat decorated with a huge blue flower—his mother said it was so vulgar she might as well leave the price tag attached—a long-sleeved blue T-shirt, shorts that displayed smooth legs, and a liberal application of sunscreen. Complete coverage is the price of fair skin, she’d said, laughing up at him.
Hell, he’d be aroused if she wore a nun’s habit.
There were better-looking women here—two rock stars who’d made it on their bodies, not their voices, three gorgeous models, and at least seven trophy wives—but the guys all stared at Meadow. She had a way about her; when she was around, it seemed the world was brighter, kinder, more joyous, and men, all men, wanted her to light their fire.
The lecherous sons of bitches. She was his fire.
The last two weeks had been marvelous and horrible. Marvelous because they’d been together every day and every night, because she looked at him as if he were the moon and the stars.
Horrible because he’d been working at a madman’s pace, and while he did, she made a methodical search of the mansion and each of its rooms. She tried to disguise it as casual wandering, as visiting with the maids, as approving the decorations, but Sam kept track on the blueprints. She never returned to the same room, and once Devlin had caught her scowling at her map.
He felt almost sorry enough for her to tell her what she needed to know—but she kept her silence. She pretended to be an amnesiac.
And he refused to make himself a fool over a woman. He refused to find himself abandoned, scorned, and betrayed like Bradley Benjamin.
Devlin would not be the one to give his trust—and it really pissed him off that she made him want to.
Off to his left, the Amelia Shores Society of Old Farts sat on the porch, observing the proceedings with varying reactions.
Scrubby Gallagher sat with his feet propped on the rail, nursing an iced tea and watching the women. He couldn’t have looked more content.
Penn Sample rocked a little too fast to be anything but annoyed by the hubbub.
Begum, one of the world’s top models, sauntered by, and Wilfred Kistard adjusted his toupee, unbuttoned the top button of his tropical-print shirt, and went after her. Good luck to the old fool.
H. Edwin Osgood wore his trademark bow tie and thick glasses, and as he watched the frivolity it seemed the stoop in his shoulders became more pronounced. Probably the carnival made him feel old.
Bradley Benjamin sat stiffly on a straight-backed chair beside Osgood. He wore a summer-weight wool suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a straw hat
. All he needed was a slave boy fanning him with a frond to be the picture of a wealthy nineteenth-century Southern planter. His posture, his scowl, everything about him was a criticism of the Secret Garden and the party.
His glower, and the opportunity to needle him, almost resigned Devlin to the cost of that antique calliope.
Devlin strolled over. “Enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?”
“This display of tastelessness”—Bradley Benjamin gestured at the party—“is a disgrace to a fine old estate.”
“But really, you didn’t expect any different from a common bastard like me.” Devlin enjoyed delivering the line before Benjamin could.
“You don’t show Mr. Benjamin the respect due him for his advanced age and noble position.” Osgood’s mouth puckered, and his skinny lips wrinkled.
“Oh, be quiet,” Bradley snapped. He did not like having his age called into play.
Penn Sample’s blue eyes twinkled with that artificial kindness he played so well, and which Devlin had learned meant trouble. “It would be a shame if something happened here before you could open your hotel.”
“Such as?”
“We saw a cell tower had been erected.” Benjamin never bothered to hide his hostility, but today he visibly bristled.
“Yes, it’s hard to miss, isn’t it?” Devlin leaned down to Benjamin’s eye level. “See the people mingling with the crowd? The ones in black and white with headsets and mouthpieces? Those are my security force. They’re on top alert.”
“You had security before.” Benjamin’s papery lids drooped over eyes heavy with malice.
“Gabriel Prescott, the national head of the firm, is here and mingling with the guests. There won’t be any incidents—or rather, any more accidents.” Devlin straightened. “I declare that from this moment, the hotel is officially open.”
Benjamin glared in helpless fury.
Devlin looked around at all of them. “Trust me, gentlemen, before the decade is out, you’ll see three more hotels along this strip. But then, that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”
It was. He could almost see them shivering in their fine leather shoes.
Dangerous Ladies Page 46
