by Anne Stuart
“Give them back,” she demanded, feeling naked and horribly vulnerable in the face of his piercing regard.
“Cathy, it’s almost nine o’clock at night. You don’t need sunglasses at this hour,” he said in an almost tender voice. “Besides, you’re home.”
She looked past him at the ancient building that held her apartment and three other luxury flats. “How did you know where I live?” she demanded suspiciously. “I don’t remember telling you.”
Sighing in exasperation, he rose to his full height, catching her arm and pulling her out of the car at the same time. “That’s because I’m a Russian spy and it’s my duty to know these things,” he said wearily. “How come the paranoia?”
“Charles must have told you.” Cathy satisfied her own curiosity, not noticing that Sin neither confirmed nor denied it. She held out her hand politely. “Thank you for driving me home,” she said, her voice hatefully stiff and priggish. She knew she should invite him in for a drink, or even some dinner, but Sin MacDonald was a fairly overwhelming man, and at that moment she felt she had to be by herself, back in the safety of her apartment, able to hide from the confusing sensations and emotions that had assaulted her during the long, tiring day. And yet a perverse, totally irrational part of her wished he’d somehow prolong the evening. Force her to invite him upstairs, or drag her out to dinner. He hadn’t taken no for an answer before.
This time, however, it appeared that he would.
He stared down at her politely outstretched hand, the sun-lines around his smoky hazel eyes crinkling in amusement. “That’s right. I did promise to shake your hand.” Clicking his heels together, he took her hand in his and bowed over it, for all the world like a Prussian officer. “Madame,” he uttered in a thick, guttural accent, “the pleasure is all mine.”
And without a backward glance he strode back to the driver’s seat on his impossibly long legs, got in, and drove away. Cathy stared after him, an unaccustomed pricking in her eyes. What was she crying about? she demanded of herself angrily as she strode past the doorman, giving him an automatic friendly nod. Greg Danville had given her more than enough to weep about for the next few years; she didn’t need to start crying about Sin MacDonald besides!
The apartment was still and silent as she let herself in, and unbearably stuffy after being shut up for the day. Out of habit she strode to the air conditioner, then made a detour to the long, Palladian windows that overlooked a mini-balcony. Pulling back the heavy curtains that had stayed shut the past three months, she opened the French door onto the cool night air. A fresh breeze ruffled her hair, and there was a scent of fall in the air. Maybe the summer of my discontent is over, she thought, wrapping her arms around her slender body. At that moment she realized she was still clad in Sin MacDonald’s Irish knit sweater. Damn, she thought. Now she’d be forced to get in touch with him to return it. And for that matter, where were her sunglasses? Still in his hand, last time she’d seen them. Double damn. She’d have to call Meg tomorrow and find out how to reach the enigmatic Mr. Sinclair MacDonald. What a pain, to be forced to communicate with someone she found quite... bothersome.
Humming beneath her breath, she moved into her kitchen and began assembling a gigantic sandwich. There was scarcely any food in the house— she’d have to remedy that tomorrow. Funny, but she hadn’t felt much like eating since she couldn’t remember when. And now, all of a sudden, she was eating like a weight watcher let out on probation. First stuffing herself that afternoon, and now she was wolfing down a sandwich that would have put a glutton like Charles to shame. Back to the refrigerator to discover, to her unalloyed joy, a single beer, the same imported brand that Sinclair MacDonald favored. I’ll have to get some more, she thought, opening the bottle and pouring it into a heavy pub mug, and taking another bite of her sandwich. You never know who might turn up and want a beer.
The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted her meal and she reached for the phone, spilling half of her drink in her haste to answer it. “Hello?” she said breathlessly around the remains of her sandwich.
“Cathy? Is that you? It’s Meg.” Her sister’s voice sounded somewhat disgruntled.
“Hi, Meg. Who else would answer my phone?” she replied, taking a drink from her depleted beer.
“You’re back so soon?” She sounded disappointed, Cathy thought. But not as disappointed as I was when I answered the phone.
“Of course I am. It’s only forty miles from the marina,” she said reasonably.
“But I thought Sin might take you out to dinner or something.” Her tone of voice was plaintive. “You didn’t scare him off, did you?”
“Of course I did,” Cathy shot back. “Isn’t that what I always do with importunate young men?”
“I wouldn’t call Sin importunate. Or that young, either. He’s older than Charles—probably around thirty-five or thirty-six. That would make him ten years older than you, so I hardly think that qualifies him—”
“Enough, Meg. You know I don’t like match-making.”
“Yes, ma’am. How did you manage to scare him off?” she questioned, a very real interest in her voice.
“It was quite simple. I don’t think he was the slightest bit interested in the first place.”
There was a long, disbelieving pause. “Well, we shall see. Sin isn’t one to give up easily, and—”
“He’s not interested in me, Meg. If I thought he was, I wouldn’t be coming with you to the Caribbean.”
“But you don’t dislike him, do you, sweetie?” Meg’s voice was anxious.
“No, Meggie. I just have no intention of getting involved with someone at this point. If I ever do, I will let you know, and you can rush right out and round up all your eligible friends for my inspection.”
“Well, all right. Maybe I should encourage Sin to bring a girlfriend along, if you two really aren’t going to hit it off. Though I don’t know if I like the idea of some nubile young thing accompanying those two horny men on that very romantic boat for however long it’ll take them to sail down. I’ve never seen Sin with anything less than a bona fide beauty.”
“Do whatever you think is best. That might be a very good idea,” she said, lying through her teeth. “Let me know what’s happening, will you? Oh, and I forgot to give him back his sweater. Do you suppose I could drop it off with you and you could return it for me? And maybe get my sunglasses back?”
“Why don’t you do it? I’ll give you his number.”
“No, please. I’d prefer it if you’d take care of it.” All Cathy’s earlier good humor was rapidly vanishing. “I don’t want to see any more of Sinclair MacDonald than I absolutely have to.”
“Hmm.” Meg’s voice was knowing. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, take it easy, okay?”
“Sure thing. Don’t I always?”
“Not recently,” her sister said wryly, hanging up.
The last tiny bit of sandwich went into the trash, the rest of the beer down the drain. Heading toward the bedroom, Cathy hesitated listlessly by the open windows, then shrugged and continued on her way. Tomorrow morning she could pull the curtains again.
She woke up suddenly, her slender body in the light cotton nightgown shivering in the predawn light. Another dream, another nightmare. With no Sin MacDonald to save her, she thought muzzily, huddling down under the light summer blanket. Still her body trembled, both from the cold and the aftermath of her nightmare.
Five minutes later, she sat up, sighing. A heavy flannel nightgown hung on the hook inside her walk-in closet, a cardigan sweater lay across the chair beside her, her quilted robe was just inside the bathroom door. Getting up, she padded all the way across the apartment in bare feet, out to the front hall. Sin’s sweater lay there, where she had left it the night before. Pulling it over her head, she made her way across the apartment and got back into bed. The scent of her perfume mingled with the traces of his after-shave and the faint smell of the sea. Pulling the blankets around her, she shut her e
yes, snuggling down into the Irish wool. A moment later she was asleep.
* * *
Chapter Five
* * *
Putting Sinclair MacDonald out of her mind was far easier said than done. During the next two weeks, Cathy found herself jumping every time the phone rang, racing to answer it, all prepared for the scathing denunciation that she had reworked several times during the ensuing days. But the phone had remained silent.
In the meantime she was torn. Part of her hated the thought of leaving the apartment and possibly missing a phone call, but the overwhelming emotion that haunted her was a need to escape. After three months of immuring herself in the four walls of her luxurious Georgetown flat, she found that she would go mad if she didn’t get out for at least part of the day. She went shopping, buying unsuitable clothes that she would never wear, food that turned bad in the refrigerator and had to be thrown out. And for some obscure reason, she always kept a supply of imported German beer in the sparsely filled refrigerator.
By the second weekend after her daylong sail, the inactivity broke her will, and throwing her bathing suit and a change of clothes in the back of her small red Honda, she drove the forty miles to her father’s estate in Virginia. Brandon Whiteheart’s health had not been good, and Cathy never thought of him without a pang of worry.
As the youngest of Brandon Whiteheart’s large brood, she had always held a special place in her father’s affections, affections she returned fully. Her mother’s death when Cathy was two years old had sealed her close dependence on her father, and Brandon had always found time to be there for her, despite his myriad interests. A brusque businessman, it had taken the gentle vulnerability of his youngest to pierce his hard-boiled exterior. Meg had still been young enough to benefit from his softening, but the three elder siblings—snobbish and overbearing Georgia, always so aware of her position as the daughter of one of the wealthiest industrialists in America; pompous Henry; and venal Travis, Cathy’s least favorite of all her siblings—had been too well set in their ways. Too many years of parental disinterest had done their damage, and the three elder Whitehearts viewed their father’s absorption with Cathy and her elder sister Meg with jealous exasperation.
All this was going through Cathy’s mind as her little red car sped across the countryside. There was little doubt all three of them would be in residence.
Georgia and her husband Allen had moved in with Pops when Allen’s business had gone bankrupt. Henry and his wife Milly were in the midst of moving, and were staying at Whiteoaks until their extravagant new house was completed. And Travis, dear, darling Travis with his little ways that bordered on sadism, came every weekend to ensure his inheritance. Despite the fact that Brandon Whiteheart had always been scrupulously even and fair in his dealings with his children, Travis could never find it in his heart to trust either his father’s fairness or his siblings’ greed. Since the heart spasm last winter Travis had raced down to Whiteoaks each and every weekend, eyeing his siblings with a jealous sneer and confining his conversation to snide remarks and sycophantic fawnings on his father. The absurdity of it was, Cathy thought as she pushed her silver-blond hair back from her face, that of all the wealthy Whiteheart children, Travis had done the best with his inheritance, more than tripling it in the last twelve years. Yes, she thought with a sigh, Travis would be there, and all the others, with the lamentable exceptions of Meg and Charles. They were too busy getting ready for their Caribbean trip. Maybe one afternoon with her father would be enough, she thought. Surely she could manage a few hours alone with him, long enough to assure herself that he was in good health, and then she could dash back to town before she got roped into one of those noisy, backbiting, unappetizing orgies known euphemistically as a family dinner.
As she turned into the long, winding driveway that led to Whiteoaks, a dark green BMW sped past her, too quickly for her to see the driver, but long enough for a shaft of unhappiness to mar her determinedly cheerful state of mind. Seeing a car so similar to his brought Sin back full force. Perhaps she could cancel her part of the Caribbean trip. Despite Meg’s assurances that they would scarcely even see him, Cathy had her doubts. Circumstances would throw them into a “couple” situation, where the obviously disinterested Sin would be forced to act as her willing escort. The very thought made her blush with incipient embarrassment, and she told herself she would call Meg the moment she returned home. If she needed to get away, perhaps Hawaii would be a refreshing change. If only there weren’t so damned many tourists marring the spectacular landscape! But doubtless St. Alphonse in the Caribbean would be equally tourist ridden. Maybe she would go to Europe.
“Well, Catherine, you were the last person I expected to see,” her eldest sister’s stentorian tones greeted her as she stepped lightly from the compact car and ran up the front steps. Georgia stood poised at the top of the wide, marble steps, her silvery blond hair perfectly coiffed as always, the smoky eye shadow heavy on her sunken lids, the thick coating of powder over the perfect Whiteheart features taking on a sickly mauve hue in the afternoon shadows. “And frankly, my dear, you don’t look your best,” she continued, tilting her head to one side in a deliberate attitude she had long ago perfected. “Do you think blue jeans and a khaki shirt are the proper garb in which to visit your father?”
Ignoring the rising temper always provoked by her contentious sister, Cathy clinked cheekbones dutifully, wondering if her pale, smooth cheeks had taken on some of Georgia’s purple talc. “Pops is more than used to me,” she replied evenly. “You’re looking elegant as always, George,” she added, not missing the tightening of her sister’s thin lips at the hated nickname. “Is that a new suit?”
Georgia allowed herself a small preen. “Do you like it? Bendel’s, of course. You really ought to do something about your clothes, darling. They’re either disgraceful or terribly plain. No doubt you’ve brought some terribly staid off-the-rack thing for supper.”
“I’m not staying for supper, Georgia,” Cathy decided hastily, moving past her sister into the house. “And you know perfectly well that I don’t care about clothes.”
“You never have. You’re not going to win a man that way, my dear. Take some advice from your sister, jeans and shirts will not do at all. I could also give you some advice on makeup. You don’t take advantage of your looks, you know. You don’t have to settle for being plain. With the proper makeup and clothes you could be passably pretty. I do wish you’d let me take you in hand.”
“No, thank you, Georgia.” Cathy accepted her sister’s strictures with her usual stoic forbearance, having heard them all her life. If she had ever had any doubts about her possible attractiveness, Georgia had done her best to stamp them out, leaving Cathy feeling plain and gawky, not recognizing her own lithe charm and unusual beauty. Georgia had worked her black magic once more.
“Where is everybody?” Cathy queried, changing the subject quite firmly. “Is Pops resting?”
“You know your father, Catherine. Nothing can make him slow down. He’s been conducting some very nefarious sort of business, and both Travis and Henry are livid. They’ve done everything they can to get him to confide in them, but your father does like to be mysterious.”
A tolerant smile lit Cathy’s face as she recognized her father’s childish traits, a smile that turned her palely pretty face into a thing of beauty. “He’s your father too, Georgia,” she reminded her.
Georgia’s beautifully shaped hands had curled into fists at her sister’s smile. “Not so you’d notice,” she said bluntly, turning her back on Cathy and leaving her without another word.
Cathy stared after her elegant, well-dressed back until her sister disappeared into the house, the all-too-familiar waves of guilt washing over her. “Damn it, Georgia,” she whispered, “I won’t let you do that to me anymore. It wasn’t my fault.”
“What wasn’t your fault, darling?” Travis’s slightly husky voice startled her into another polite curse. Reluctantly she turned to face h
im, wondering for not the first time how someone so endowed with physical charms and financial well-being could be so unpleasant. Her brother was just above medium height, with the same dark, wavy hair that Meg had, warm brown eyes, a beautiful nose and well-modeled lips. Unfortunately those lips were permanently carved in a sneer, and the brown eyes frequently glittered with malice.
“None of your business, Travis,” she replied pleasantly enough.
“You should be used to your sister by now, Cathy,” Travis purred. “She still hasn’t recovered from the fact that Father couldn’t care less whether she lived or died, and he thinks the sun rises and sets with you. Added to that the fact that you’re far lovelier than she could ever hope to be, along with being seventeen years younger, and I think you can understand her irritable mood. She’s usually much better when she’s warned you’re coming.”
“I’m hardly lovelier than Georgia, Travis, and if you’ve been telling her so I wish you’d stop. Everyone knows that Georgia is the beauty of the family, and will be when she’s eighty.”
“All those people don’t know my hermitlike youngest sister,” Travis said smoothly. “What brings you down here?”
“I wanted to see how Pops was doing.”
A frown creased his brow. “Don’t you think we’re capable of taking decent care of him, Cathy? Or are you expecting—”
“Travis, I just wanted to visit with him.” Cathy interrupted him with a patience that was rapidly wearing thin. It was no wonder she avoided this place like the plague. “How is he?”
“Up to his ears in intrigue,” Travis snapped, obviously nettled.
“By the way, who was that driving away as I arrived? In the green BMW?” she inquired casually, following him into the house toward her father’s library, the only place he could still call his own in a house filled with visiting children.
