Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  “Hey, Mr. Fitzwilliam!” Christian, the pastry chef, held up a football. “Look what I won!”

  “Cool!” Devlin clapped his hands.

  Christian launched the football at him. His aim was off, and Devlin had to dive to keep it from hitting Bradley Benjamin right in his pompous, offended old schnoz.

  “Sorry, Mr. Benjamin!” Christian waved apologetically, and grimaced at Devlin.

  Devlin shrugged in response and shouted, “Go long.”

  Christian backed up and up and up, and Devlin shot the football right into his arms.

  The crowd around the porch applauded—Southerners loved football, and they really loved having their own winning quarterback right in their backyard. He was pretty sure it was the only reason they still had electricity—the head of the local power company was a fan.

  Devlin waved, and dusted his fingertips.

  Grace stalked up the stairs and toward the house, her arms straight at her sides, the picture of offended dignity.

  Devlin hurried toward her. “Everything all right, Mother?”

  She showed him the lapel of her white jacket. “Frank Peterson was waving a pimento-cheese sandwich and hit me with it. Ill-bred lout. He’s the handyman. I don’t know why you invited him.”

  “I didn’t invite him.”

  “Then what is he doing here? Did he crash the party?”

  Meadow walked up licking a three-scoop cone. “Who?”

  “Frank Peterson,” Grace snapped.

  “I invited him.” Meadow’s tongue massaged the ice cream. Her hat brim bobbed. “You couldn’t expect him to stay home while his wife was here.”

  Grace waited for Devlin to speak, but he was busy watching Meadow catch a creamy drop before it trickled onto her hand. So, with a resigned sigh, Grace asked, “His wife? Who is . . . ?”

  “His wife is Jazmin, who works at the hospital.” Meadow sounded patient, as if she were reciting information they all should know.

  “And you invited her because . . . ?” Grace lifted a perfectly tweezed eyebrow.

  “She was nice to me after the wreck.” Meadow’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure as she looked out at the carnival.

  “I’ll bet you invited Miss I-Have-Perky-Breasts-and-I-Know-How-to-Use-Them.” Devlin indicated Four and the young girl.

  “Weezy!” Meadow said.

  “God bless you.” Grace brimmed over with irritation.

  “Her name is Weezy,” Meadow said patiently, “and I invited her because I couldn’t invite Jazmin without hurting Weezy’s feelings. Besides, Weezy’s keeping Four entertained.”

  Devlin noticed that Meadow’s tongue had turned bright pink from the red sprinkles. He broke a sweat.

  Weezy tucked her hand into Four’s arm. As they strolled past, the silence on the porch varied from freezing disapproval from Grace to wide-eyed lecherousness from Penn Sample.

  “He’s taking me on a personalized tour of the house,” Weezy called to them.

  “I’ll bet,” Devlin said.

  Meadow grinned and tugged at his arm. “Down, boy. You’re married now. All you get to do is run to the end of your leash and bark.”

  From the direction of the old men, Devlin heard a series of horrified gasps and choking laughs.

  She glanced at them. “Hi, Mr. Gallagher, Mr. Sample, Mr. Osgood, Mr. Benjamin. Got your hearing aids turned up?”

  Scrubby Gallagher laughed. “And loving to hear you jerk that leash. Keep it up! You’ll get him trained!”

  Meadow gave him a thumbs-up, then went back to work on her cone.

  As he viewed Isabelle’s granddaughter, Bradley Benjamin’s faded gray eyes blazed with irritation—and something Devlin had never seen there before.

  Maybe the emptiness of a life badly lived?

  God, Devlin hoped so. That would make this whole farce well worthwhile.

  That, and the pleasure of getting into Meadow’s pants every night.

  “I suppose you invited the whole hospital staff so no one got their feelings hurt,” Grace said.

  Meadow looked down at her feet as she scuffled them. Her hat brim hid her face, but everyone knew the answer.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” In a dramatic, exasperated gesture, Grace put her hand on her forehead.

  “You told me I could invite my friends!” Meadow used her tongue to push the ice cream down into the cone.

  Devlin wondered how long he could keep his erection below half-mast.

  “Your friends, not the people who are in service to you,” Grace said.

  Devlin slid his arm around Meadow’s waist. “Meadow makes everyone a friend.”

  Meadow shoved her hat brim back and looked up at him, and he saw the mischief in her face. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell her I invited the rest of the household staff, huh?”

  The expression on Grace’s face was worth the price of the Ferris wheel. She stammered, “You . . . you invited the staff. The staff of the Secret Garden?”

  “Well, sure. I told them to drop in when they weren’t working. Look! They’re having a marvelous time.” Meadow gestured widely. The cone went flying and landed splat on the handrail.

  Grace flinched and tried to protect her still-pristine white slacks.

  In a voice that insulted and sneered, Bradley Benjamin said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, it might help if you maintained enough sobriety to hold on to your food.”

  “I haven’t had a drink. I’m always this way!” She smiled at him with that special edge she maintained for Bradley Benjamin. “But it’s okay. I’m an artist. We get to be eccentric.”

  Benjamin’s gray eyes would have frozen bourbon in the glass. His lips moved soundlessly, but he wasn’t swearing. Devlin saw it. The old guy said, “Isabelle.”

  Meadow saw it, too, because she removed her hat and inclined her head at him.

  All Devlin’s suspicions shifted, changed, became certainties. Meadow knew—had always known—about Bradley Benjamin and his position in her grandmother’s life. And Meadow, who liked everybody, didn’t like Bradley Benjamin.

  “An artist?” Grace said. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  “Oops,” Meadow said softly. Wheeling on her, she said, “Grace, you’ve got something on your lapel.”

  Grace gave an exasperated huff. “If Meadow noticed, then I’ve got to go change. But I’ll be back. Don’t make your announcement until I am!”

  “We wouldn’t dream of it.” Meadow watched her leave; then, the picture of guilt, she waited.

  Waited for Devlin to question her about her art, he supposed. But he wasn’t disposed to be an asshole today.

  They had Bradley Benjamin for that.

  Instead Devlin lifted her chin and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Ice cream,” he said.

  “Right.” Scrubby put all his disbelief, all his envy, into that one word.

  Devlin didn’t care. All he cared about was having Meadow gaze at him as if she adored him.

  The raucous music from the calliope, the clamor of the crowd, the smell of food and sunscreen—they all faded away. He was aware of nothing but Meadow’s delightful smile, her warmth as she leaned into him, the scent of the lemon rinse she used in her hair.

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam, if I could speak to you in your office?”

  Sam startled Devlin out of his reverie.

  When Devlin glared at him, Sam added, “It’s important.”

  “Of course.” Reluctantly, Devlin allowed Meadow to slip out of his grasp.

  She stepped away from Sam. Looked at him very oddly. It was as if she knew Sam had been watching her when she’d shut herself into that closet, and blamed him for telling Devlin the truth.

  “Don’t be too long.” She replaced her hat and skipped down the steps.

  Devlin glanced over at the old guys. All of them watched her go, and all of them had that wistful, walking-down-memory-lane gleam in their eyes.

  All of them except Bradley Benjamin. He looked furious—and old.

  The fool. D
id his pride keep him company when he sat alone every night?

  Or had it occurred to him that if he’d kept Isabelle, he could have had Meadow for his granddaughter?

  30

  Sam indicated the bank of monitors in Devlin’s office. “Usually while Mr. Four wanders the halls, he’s reeling drunk. But today . . .”

  Four walked along the corridor on the third floor, Weezy on his arm.

  “He’s probably looking for somewhere new to get laid,” Devlin said. Like the linen closet.

  “I wouldn’t have come to get you if that was the case,” Sam said. “Watch him.”

  Four was wild-eyed, his motions jerky, as he stared at each painting. Once he stopped before a landscape, leaned in, and looked at the signature in the corner. Weezy looked bored to death, and when she tugged on his arm, Four turned on her. It was obvious that he snapped, for she flounced off.

  “He’s looking for a painting, too?” Devlin couldn’t believe it. It was too odd. Too similar to Meadow’s behavior to be a coincidence. “What the hell do they think they’re going to get out of the damned thing?”

  “Sir?” Sam frowned at Devlin.

  “Nothing.” Devlin waved the question aside.

  “Sir, do you think perhaps it might be a wise idea to send Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Four away until it’s ascertained that this painting isn’t on the premises?”

  “But it is on the premises.”

  Sam stepped forward, and he projected a surprising menace. “Would you explain yourself, sir?”

  Devlin considered what to say, how much to say. “The painting is not what everyone hopes. It’s not an important lost masterpiece. It’s an early work, and a hurried work. I like it, but I have my reasons. Why?” Why, of all the people in the world, did Sam care so much?

  “When Mrs. Fitzwilliam started searching, I took the liberty of looking over the appraisals of all the art in the house.” Sam went to the file cabinet and pulled out the file. “There’s nothing here that would indicate the kind of interest Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Four are displaying.”

  “Exactly.” Devlin noted that Sam hadn’t answered the question, but before he could ask, his walkie-talkie beeped. He glanced down and saw his mother framed in the small screen.

  “I’m ready, and if you don’t hurry, Meadow will go off and jump in the large”—Grace waved her arms—“blow-up clown thing.”

  Meadow thrust her head in front of the camera and rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Devlin clicked the off button and said to Sam, “Is there anything else before I go back?”

  “I have the report on Mrs. Fitzwilliam from the detective.”

  “About damned time.” Nothing else could have held Devlin in place. Nothing else.

  “It took him a while to sift through and find the right information.” Sam handed him a manila folder filled with papers and photos. His cool, dark eyes met Devlin’s. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam has never visited Majorca.”

  “Let’s keep that our secret.”

  But Sam still stood there, balanced between what he wanted to say and what he should say. He must have decided they were one and the same, because at last he used a low, slow voice to ask, “Have you thought that perhaps she’s sleeping with you just so she can stay here and search for this . . . painting?”

  When had Sam become so interested in all this? When had he started looking and sounding like the man in authority? “Of course I’ve thought it. How could I not? But if that’s the case, it’s worth it—and I’ll bear up and suffer through.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want me to do anything about Mr. Four?”

  “No. Let him search. It won’t hurt, and maybe it’ll keep him away from the booze.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam turned away to his office.

  Devlin stared at the folder, at Sam’s neat printing on the tab.

  Natalie Meadow Szarvas.

  He should go back to the party. He was the host. But Meadow hid too many secrets, and he’d not had time to search them out. He wanted to know everything about her, about her family, about her art, about her background. He held the answers in his hand, and he couldn’t wait any longer.

  Sitting down at his desk, he opened the folder and started reading.

  When he was finished, he stood up.

  Everything had changed. Everything.

  He had to find Meadow. This time they would work this thing out.

  Instead, when he stepped onto the porch, his mother saluted him with a glass of champagne and called, “It’s the bridegroom! Come on, Devlin; we’ve cleared the Ferris wheel. It’s time for you and Meadow to make your announcement!”

  The day had been long and exhausting.

  Devlin and Meadow had ridden the Ferris wheel to the top and made the announcement of their marriage to the cheering crowd. No one had left until after ten, and then only the local half had driven away. The rest of the party had retired to the bar. It was after two by the time the last of the guests had staggered off to their rooms at the Secret Garden, sending the staff into a frenzy of work as they delivered extra towels, antacids, and bottles of water.

  By the time Devlin came to bed, Meadow was asleep.

  As he climbed under the covers with her, he resolved that he would talk to her in the morning.

  But the second Meadow stepped out of bed, Devlin woke up. He lay there for a moment, waiting to see if she turned on the bathroom light.

  But no. She slipped into her robe—and left the room.

  Perhaps he was a fool, but he knew she wasn’t sneaking off to visit another man. And the moon wasn’t full, so she wasn’t off to dance naked in the garden.

  This was about her mother. That single sentence in the detective’s report had explained everything.

  Meadow wanted that painting to pay for her mother’s treatment. And how deeply Devlin resented the fact that she hadn’t told him her troubles. Told him the truth. He’d given her so many chances, yet it seemed that while she trusted him enough to sleep with him, she didn’t trust him with her secrets.

  He got up and pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt. Going to the closet, he dug out his Reeboks.

  All right, maybe some of the things he’d done, and some of the things he’d said, and some of the things he’d encouraged others to say about him, led her to believe he was a ruthless, unyielding jerk.

  But didn’t she know? Didn’t she realize?

  With her, he was different. He felt . . . young. He believed in possibilities. In wiggly puppies and in spring showers that brought May flowers. In miracles.

  The idea of Devlin Fitzwilliam being silly in love seemed absurd—except that he was in love with Meadow.

  He tied his shoes.

  Well. Tonight he would teach her to trust him. He would do what he had sworn he would not—he’d confess the truth, all the truth. Kind, generous Meadow would realize the error of her ways, and she’d stay with him.

  He headed out, figuring he could check the monitors across the dimly lit corridor, see where she’d headed off to search, and find her.

  But when he accessed the room, the security panel was black.

  He stared in horror.

  Had Meadow turned off the whole system to look for her painting?

  Because with the hotel full of guests, including the Godfather of Amelia Shores, Bradley Benjamin, the chances for undetected sabotage, for theft and disaster, had radically increased.

  Devlin tore down the hall and toward his office on the main floor. He hit the landing at the top.

  Someone was going into his office.

  He shouted.

  Gabriel shouted back, “I’m on it!” and disappeared inside.

  Devlin took the steps two at a time.

  As he neared the first floor, he realized someone had dropped a bundle of towels at the bottom of the stairs.

  But as he got closer, he realized that it wasn’t towels or rags or someone’s clothes. It had a head of copper hair that shone dully, limbs arranged
at an awkward angle, and it lay unmoving. Unconscious.

  Meadow.

  Dear God. Dear God. Please, no, God . . .

  He knelt beside her. His hands trembled as he touched her face. Still warm. He pressed his fingers to the artery in her neck. Her heart beat. He called her name. “Meadow?”

  But she didn’t respond.

  She’d fallen down the stairs.

  A small trickle of blood stained the carpet beneath her head.

  But he didn’t dare move her, because this time . . . this time she might have broken her neck. This time . . . she was really hurt.

  He leaned down close. “Meadow. For the love of God. Don’t die. Please, don’t die. I love you.”

  And he stayed there until the ambulance took her away.

  But she never moved. She never answered him at all.

  31

  Dawn was lightening the sky when Devlin quietly let himself in the front door of the Secret Garden.

  “How is she?” Grace stood silhouetted in the entrance to the library, her hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her robe, her eyes worried.

  “She has a hell of a gash on the back of her head and a lot of bruises on her arms and legs. They say she’s fine, but they kept her overnight for observation. Dr. Apps says Meadow’s been hit on the head too many times in the last month.” He tried to grin. “So why do I feel punchy?”

  “I knew it. That girl wouldn’t let a fall down the stairs faze her. She could probably fall out of an airplane and bounce.”

  He only wished Meadow had looked a little less pale, and been a little less confused by where she was now and how she’d gotten there. “Yes. She is indomitable, isn’t she?”

  “Rather like me.”

  He was very tired, and it took him a minute to process her observation. Grace had paid Meadow the ultimate compliment. He almost staggered from the shock. “My God, Mother. You like her!”

  “I don’t like her. I think she’s lying about half the things she says. She dresses horribly. She’s impertinent. She doesn’t comprehend the most basic of proprieties. Neither of you has given me the slightest clue about her background, by which I must assume both parents are serial killers. And she’s a Yankee.” Grace’s voice got sharper with each complaint. Then her face softened. “But she makes you happy, so that impertinent, unsuitable child of Yankee convicts . . . is fine.”