by Anne Stuart
Originally Published November 1983
Electronic Edition 2016
Copyright © 1983 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge. All rights reserved.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
About Anne Stuart
* * *
Chapter One
* * *
It was a dream, a nightmare, that she’d relived too many times. That voice, that awful, slurred voice, yelling at her, screaming at her, tormenting her, before the heavy fists followed, crashing down on her, as she helplessly tried to flinch out of his reach. But she had never been fast enough, even though he was always slowed by liquor when the rages came upon him. He’d catch her as she scrambled for the door, and her cries would go unheeded as he’d hit her, again and again and again.
“Are you all right?”
Cathy Whiteheart turned her attention from the crowded highway to her sister’s concerned gaze, and managed to summon up the vestiges of a smile. “Of course,” she said, her voice slightly rusty. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just groaned,” Meg said sharply. “And you’re white as a sheet.”
“I haven’t been outside my apartment all summer,” she reminded her. “It’s no wonder I’m pale.”
“You weren’t that pale a few moments ago. Were you thinking about Greg?”
Cathy pushed the sunglasses back, huddling deeper into the soft leather seat of the deep blue Mercedes. “I shouldn’t have agreed to come with you,” she said, ignoring her sister’s question.
“You didn’t exactly agree.” Meg’s voice was caustic. “I simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’s been months since we’ve seen you, Cathy. We’ve been worried about you.”
“I’ll be all right,” Cathy replied, but the set expression on her pale, stubborn face was far from reassuring.
“I wish I could believe that,” Meg said, equaling her stubbornness as she once more turned her attention toward the highway between Georgetown and Annapolis.
The famed Whiteheart obstinacy was about all they had in common, Cathy thought with a wryness unusual for her nowadays as she turned back to the scenery. No one would ever have taken them for sisters. Much as Meg might envy Cathy her willowy height, the shoulder-length curtain of silver-blond hair, and the large, wide-set green eyes, it was Meg who had been inundated with suitors, surrounded by handsome, friendly, eager young men. Pert, short, dark-haired Meg, with her much lamented tendency to put on weight and her less-than-perfect nose was the acknowledged belle of the Whiteheart clan, while Cathy, with her classic, untouchable looks had led a surprisingly cloistered existence. It wasn’t that she had actively disliked men, she thought musingly. Far from it. But no one had, in most of her twenty-six years, been able to arouse her interest, and the most dedicated men had fallen away in the face of her intractable calm. If only it had stayed that way.
But owning and running a day-care center hadn’t put her much in the way of eligible men, so that by the time Greg Danville had appeared in her life, with his handsome face, puppy-dog air and absurdly vulnerable demeanor she had fallen hard, too hard. And then had been unable to pull herself out of the quicksand of a suddenly destructive relationship until it was too late, and she was scarred for life, emotionally if not physically. Why hadn’t she stayed in her apartment, hidden behind the drapes, instead of out here in the bright, merciless October sunlight that reached behind her large, opaque sunglasses? She wasn’t ready to face life again. There were times when she doubted she ever would be.
Meg had kept up an inconsequential flow of chatter, refusing to be discouraged in the face of Cathy’s monosyllabic answers. They were almost at the marina when she once more broached the subject that never seemed far from her conversation. “He’s not worth it, Cathy.”
For a moment Cathy considered not replying. She continued facing out the window, mesmerized by the scenery she had seen many, many times. “Don’t you think I know that?” she said finally in a weary, disheartened voice. “I know perfectly well that I was a fool—I never spend a day without realizing it. And I know that my pride was more damaged than my heart. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m capable of falling in love. If I’d loved Greg more maybe I would have put up with less.” She sighed bitterly. “I thought he needed me.”
“He did, Cathy. But in ways that were no good for either of you, don’t you realize that?”
“Of course I realize that. I realize quite a bit,” she added, staring out the window with listless eyes. “But then, I haven’t had anything to do but sit and think.”
“Sometimes I think it’s a damned shame Brandon Whiteheart is our father,” Meg declared with belated wrath. “It would have done you good to have had to go out and work every day. I still can’t imagine why you sold out your share in the day-care center. The work was perfect for you.”
“If Brandon Whiteheart wasn’t our father, Meg dear,” Cathy replied with a trace of her old humor, “and if we each weren’t the proud possessors of embarrassingly large trust funds, not to mention all sorts of expectations from Auntie Flo, etcetera, then Greg Danville would have found me less than irresistible, and I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in now.”
“If you think he was only after your money, then you haven’t looked in the mirror, sweetie.”
“I know only too well he was only after my money,” Cathy replied wearily. “It was made appallingly clear to me.”
Meg, never blessed with a large amount of circumspection, plunged right in. “What exactly did happen? One moment the two of you were all hearts and flowers, engaged to be married, and the next thing I know you’ve barricaded yourself in a new apartment and Greg had moved in with some politician’s daughter.”
A shaft of remembered pain shot through Cathy. “Please, Meg. I don’t want to think about it.”
“But you obviously are. And I think it might help if you talked about it to someone,” Meg persisted, her concern and curiosity inextricably entwined.
Cathy knew that nothing but shock tactics would silence her. Turning to face her sister’s pert, inquisitive face, she pulled off the enveloping dark glasses that were like a second skin, and her cold, despairing green eyes bored into Meg’s startled brown ones. “Do you remember the time I fell off a horse last winter?” she queried calmly enough.
“Of course I do. You were a real mess—two black eyes, a broken rib and a concussion. But what does that—”
“And the time I told you I fell down a flight of stairs?” she continued inexorably.
“Certainly. But why...” Horrified disbelief washed over her face as she swerved over into the opposite lane. She pulled back into her own just in time to avoid an irate Volvo station wagon. “Cathy, I had no idea! How hideous for you! But why didn’t you leave him sooner? Why did you let him continue to do that to you?”
“It’s very h
ard to escape from a situation like that,” Cathy said wearily, returning her glasses to their customary position on her aquiline nose. “I don’t think I could explain, even if I wanted to. Do you suppose we could just drop the subject? Have a nice day sailing, with no bad memories and no broken hearts? Please?” The plea wasn’t far removed from tears.
“Of course we can drop it, sweetie,” Meg soothed, instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean to push. And I’m certain that Charles won’t bring it up either. He’s always the most tactful of men, my dear husband is, and you can be sure he wouldn’t mention something like that in front of a stranger. Not that Sin’s a stranger, mind you. We’ve known him for years—he’s one of Charles’s very best friends. But you haven’t met him yet, so we would hardly be likely to...” Meg’s mindless chatter trailed off in the face of Cathy’s suddenly wrathful expression.
“Margaret Whiteheart Shannon, if you have dared to fix me up with a blind date I will never, ever forgive you! At this moment I have no interest in men whatsoever, and if I ever do I will be more than capable of finding my own. I’ve spent the last three months feeling angry, hurt, and frightened, and I’m not in the mood to have some willowy senator’s aide paraded for my inspection. Stop the damned car!’’’
“He’s not a senator’s aide, and he’s not there for your inspection,” Meg said mildly, her face mirroring her guilty conscience. “It’s his boat, after all. I couldn’t very well tell him he couldn’t come along because my sister is afraid of men.”
“Damn you, Meg,” Cathy said bitterly, determined not to let her see how close to the mark her words had come. “It’s not without justification.”
“I know it’s not,” Meg said in a reasonable, sympathetic tone. “I shouldn’t have said that. But I’m not trying to fix you up—I can understand you need time. I wish you wouldn’t be so suspicious. Charles and I were thinking of buying a boat, and Sin’s seemed just the right size.”
“So he’s a used-boat dealer.”
“No, dear. Sin doesn’t need our money, and he’s very happy with his boat. We’re thinking of buying one like it, and he suggested we come along for a day’s outing and see if it suited us. As a matter of fact, I expect he’ll probably have some sweet young thing along, and you won’t have to worry about him making a pass at you. You can sit on deck and glower to your heart’s content. Does that make you any happier?” She pulled into a parking lot beside the marina, sliding to a halt with a squealing of tires that years of driving and her husband’s exasperation had failed to cure.
“I should never have come,” Cathy mumbled.
“Maybe not. But I’m not about to turn around and drive you back to Georgetown. You’re here and you’re going to enjoy yourself, or so help me I’ll throw you overboard as soon as we get out of the harbor.” Meg’s dark eyes were quite fierce in her heart-shaped face, and there was a pugnacious tilt to her pointed chin; it was a battle of wills. After a moment Cathy laughed—a weak laugh, but it gave Meg hope after she’d all but abandoned it,
“All right,” Cathy said, raising her hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’ll be good. I’ll tap-dance around the deck, flirt with Mr. Whatsisname, keep Charles in stitches...”
“His name is Sinclair MacDonald, and he isn’t your type at all.”
Cathy followed her sister out of the car and down the docks. “And what do you consider my type? Why wouldn’t your wonderful Mr. MacDonald do?”
“Because Sin is fairly good-looking, intelligent, charming, well-bred, amusing, somewhat dangerous, and quite, quite kind. Since your only previous lover lacked all those qualities, I’m certain that Sin would never do for a girl with your peculiar tastes.”
“A great many people have said Greg was handsome,” Cathy said with ill-placed defensiveness.
“His eyes were too close together. And don’t go telling me he was charming. I could see through that manufactured bonhomie the moment I saw him. And he certainly wasn’t intelligent. If he was, he would never have thrown you over for a round-heels like Susie Daley.”
“Could we just possibly stop talking about Greg?” Cathy begged. “I’ll make an effort, I promise. I’ll even be nice to Mr. Sinclair MacDonald, if you promise me it’s not a setup.”
“Have I ever set you up before?” Meg demanded, properly incensed.
Despite her overwhelming gloom, Cathy found she had to laugh at her righteous indignation. “Well, there was Charles’s assistant at the Division, there was your next-door neighbor.” She listed them on her slender, ringless fingers. “There was the young man you took your pottery course with, there was—”
“Enough! I plead guilty. But I know well enough that you’re in no mood for matchmaking right now. I have some sensitivity, you know,” she said, a vague look of guilt hovering around her dark eyes.
“There you are, ladies,” Charles’s east coast drawl hailed them from up ahead. “We’d just about given up on you.”
“Cathy took a bit more persuading than I expected,” Meg replied, moving toward the boat with quickening steps. “But I got her here, and that’s the main thing. Come along, Cathy,” she called back over her shoulder, racing up the gang-plank and into her husband’s welcoming arms.
Cathy trailed behind, wondering if she could come up with some last-minute excuse. The bright sun, blue sky, and the trim, shining white yacht were all conspiring to bring back the headache that had been her constant companion during the long, sweltering summer months. Desperately she wanted to race back to Georgetown, to her silent apartment with the drawn curtains and the air conditioner, shut away from the fresh sea air and the smiling faces and laughing voices all around her.
She hesitated at the top of the gangplank. “Look, why don’t I just catch a bus back to town? I’m not really in the mood for this.”
Meg sent her husband a long-suffering look. “You see what I mean? She seems to have developed an allergy to sunshine and fresh air. If you come up with one more complaint, Cathy...”
“All right, all right,” she acquiesced, giving Charles a kiss on his proffered cheek. “This is a lovely boat, though why you’d need anything quite so large is beyond me.”
“It sleeps four. We’re planning on using ours to sail down to the Caribbean in the winter like Sin does. Think of the money we’ll save in hotel bills!” Meg announced brightly.
“That sounds like your usual idea of wise financial planning,” Cathy scoffed. She cast a searching glance about the shiny decks. “Where is our host? Did I scare him away?”
“Sin’s gone to pick up some supplies.” Charles shrugged.
“And his lady friend?” Cathy inquired in silky tones. Meg was off to one side, making frantic gestures that Charles failed entirely to notice.
“Oh, there’s no one else coming. I think Sin’s between ladies for the moment. Though he seldom stays that way for long. I’ve never known anyone with such phenomenal luck with women.” Meg’s grimaces and signals finally penetrated his abstraction, as did Cathy’s motionless stance, her generous mouth compressed in a thin line beneath the large, enveloping sunglasses.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry,” he added hastily. “I don’t think you’re Sin’s type. He likes them a little more worldly, and a little more rounded, for that matter. You’ve lost weight this summer,” he added bluntly.
“Tactful as ever,” Cathy murmured, relaxing her tensed shoulders for the first time that day. It was good to be around Charles and Meg and their tactless concern. She hadn’t allowed anyone that close in months.
“No, really, you don’t need to worry about Sin. He’s absolutely harmless. I’m sure he’ll take no more notice of you than if you were a piece of driftwood.”
“That bad, am I?” Cathy laughed, the sound rusty from long disuse.
Charles’s fair skin flushed. “You know what I mean, Cath. It’s just that Sin is... well, you know, he’s...”
“Yes, Charles. What exactly am I?” An amused voice came from directly behind her, though well ab
ove her head. With a curious sense of fate, Cathy turned to meet Sinclair MacDonald.
* * *
Chapter Two
* * *
She had been prepared for height, but not quite the overwhelming size of the man directly behind her. She squinted up at him, way up into the face above her, the mobile mouth, laughing hazel eyes, and she took a hasty step backward, away from all that vibrant masculinity. In her rush of nervousness she tripped, her ankle turning beneath her, and before anyone could move a large, well-shaped hand reached out and caught her elbow, righting her again with just the proper amount of strength and gentleness, and then released her.
“Thank you,” she said shakily, the imprint of his hand still burning on the soft, tender skin of her upper arm. Keeping better control of her feet, she backed away, well out of range of that almost overwhelming masculine intensity.
“Sinclair MacDonald, this is my sister-in-law, Cathy Whiteheart. Cath, this is Sin. You’ve heard me mention him,” Charles added with a winning smile that had a nervous edge to it.
“Not that I remember,” Cathy said with a stubborn, unencouraging glare at her demure sister. All that potent attraction was having a perverse effect—she was determined to keep this astonishingly attractive man at a distance. There was a look of a sleek, jungle beast about him, for all his affable smile. Like a panther, she thought fancifully, edging farther away.
Her host smiled lazily down at her. “Well, you haven’t missed anything,” he dismissed her rudeness lightly. “Why don’t you ladies go below and see if you can rustle up some lunch while Charles and I get under way? It’s past noon and I, for one, am starving.”
Cathy met the charming grin with stony rage. “Why don’t you gentlemen fix lunch? Or is that too much like women’s work?”
Instead of the anger she expected and hoped for, the amused smile deepened, revealing a disconcerting dimple in one lean, weathered cheek. “A liberated woman?” he inquired smoothly. “I beg your pardon. Why don’t Charles and I make lunch, then, while the two of you cast off and get us out of the harbor? You can call us when we’ve hit open sea.” He started toward the cabin.
