Chain of Love

by Anne Stuart

  “No one you know, little sister. Some business acquaintance of his, part of his hush-hush plan. Don’t bother asking—even you won’t get any further with him on this one.”

  “I have no intention of cross-examining him about his business. I doubt it would be all that exciting once I found out, anyway,” she replied, stopping outside the paneled door to the library.

  “Will we be seeing you at dinner, Cathy mine?”

  A bitter smile lit her pale face. “Not likely. For some reason my family destroys my appetite.”

  “You don’t look as if you’ve had much appetite recently, anyway,” her brother observed sweetly.

  “You know what they say, darling,” she shot back. “A woman can’t be too thin or too rich.”

  “And you know, from your experience with Greg Danville, that both of those things aren’t true.”

  Cathy recoiled as if from a physical blow. “How do you know about Greg Danville?” she demanded hoarsely.

  “You should know by now, dear Cathy, that nothing stays a secret in this family.” Travis was unmoved by the reaction he had caused.

  “Does Pops know about it?”

  “Who do you think told me?” he purred. “Have you forgotten that Father employs a veritable army of private investigators?”

  Slowly Cathy withdrew her hand from the antique brass doorknob, noticing with absent fascination that her slender, ringless hand was trembling slightly. “Good-bye, Travis,” she said coolly, and turning on her heel, she strode out of the house without a backward glance. Travis’s light, malicious voice floated to her.

  “What shall I tell your dear Pops?”

  She paused for only a moment at the front door. “I’m certain you’ll think of something,” she replied without bothering to turn around. A moment later she was in her car, speeding down the driveway, away from the house, away from her hateful family. And away from her insensitive, prying, controlling father. Damn them all.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  The insistent ringing of her doorbell finally penetrated Cathy’s heavy, drugged sleep. Without bothering to check her digital clock glowing malevolently in the darkened bedroom, she buried her head under the feather pillow with a groan. Still the buzz of the doorbell intruded. She pressed the pillow closer over her head, swearing beneath her breath.

  Someone was leaning on the doorbell now, the shrill noise penetrating the pillow, Cathy’s hands, and her aching head with a sadistic vengeance. With a groan she threw the pillow across the room and struggled out of bed, moving in a fogged stupor toward the front door.

  It had been four in the morning before she had slept. The thought of her father’s betrayal had been the crudest blow of all, with her siblings’ customary malice a mere frosting on the cake. From the moment she arrived back in her apartment, just after dark, the phone had begun to ring, and ring, and ring, until she took it off the hook in desperation. For the first time in her life she wished she hadn’t been so adamant in turning down the sleeping pills and tranquilizers her family practitioner had offered her. After all, every-one else took them, why shouldn’t she? If she only had some, maybe she’d be able to sleep. Or at least stay awake calmly.

  Even her most faithful friend, the television set, had failed her in her moment of need. The only thing on late night TV had been a turgid romance, far too well suited to her morose mood. The only alcohol in the house had been the imported German brew. It had taken two and a half beers to make her pleasantly tipsy, tipsy enough so that when she scrambled into her now customary sleeping apparel of shorty pajamas and Sin’s Irish sweater, she fell asleep with only a few maudlin tears. To dream once more of Greg Danville, his blue eyes narrowed in rage as he stalked her, until she woke up with a muffled scream of terror in the predawn light.

  It had taken another hour for her to sleep again. For two weeks Greg had been absent from her dreams, only to turn up now, when she least needed him. She had hugged her sweating body tightly, willing the panic to subside. She was safe, the door was locked, there was no way he could get to her.

  The buzzer was still ringing in her head as she stumbled across the darkened living room, tripping over the pillows she had thrown, knocking over the stale, half-empty beer bottle in front of the television. Reaching the door with its damnable buzzer, she pounded furiously against the thick paneling.

  “Shut up, damn you!” she shrieked. “I’ll open the blasted door if you just give me a moment.”

  The buzzing stopped, leaving a silence even more deafening in her pounding head. Peering through the peephole, all she could see was a broad chest. She knew only one man that tall. She didn’t even hesitate. With fumbling fingers she undid the three locks and flung open the door into the hallway. And there, leaning against the door-jamb, lounged Sin MacDonald, looking, if that was possible, even more overpoweringly handsome than he had two weeks ago. The faded denims encased his long, long legs, though this time he wore old cowboy boots in place of the sneakers. His lean, powerful torso was shown to advantage by a chambray western shirt, and the green sweater he had worn as a sop to the chilly weather brought out his hazel eyes. On his lean, tanned face was a tolerant half-smile, in one hand he twirled her missing sunglasses.

  Cathy stood there, staring, her mouth agape, unaware of how completely appealing she looked, her silver-blond hair tousled around a sleep-smudged face, the long legs bare beneath the enveloping sweater. At the sight of her his smile broadened, and he stood upright and strolled past her into the apartment, for all the world as if he belonged there, she thought wrathfully.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying my sweater,” he said mildly enough. “Isn’t it pretty scratchy to sleep in, though? Or are you wearing something underneath it?”

  Color flooded her face as she realized just how little she was wearing. She stood there, torn as to whether to order him from the house, or dash to the bedroom to put on something a bit more enveloping. Sin must have had the uncanny ability to read her mind, for he walked back past her dumbstruck body, closed the door, and turned to her, that lazy smile still playing about his mouth but not quite reaching the eyes.

  “Don’t you think you’d better put something else on?” he inquired gently. “Not that you don’t look absolutely lovely, but the sight of all that delicious female flesh is a bit unsettling for a red-blooded American male.”

  “I—I—” She gave it up and fled to her bedroom, banging the door shut behind her.

  She was in no hurry to put in an appearance after her embarrassing encounter. The clock by her bed read the unbelievable hour of 2:00 P.M., and she had obviously still been in bed. How did he know she was alone? She should have pretended there was someone waiting for her in the bedroom, someone who kept her in bed the better part of the day. Maybe that would wipe that amused smile off his face, she thought viciously, ripping off her clothes and turning on the shower, full blast. Maybe she could still pretend there was someone in here—after all, he was hardly likely to-

  She had underestimated him. She had barely put her head under the heavy stream when his voice came horrendously close. “Do you like your coffee black?” he inquired casually.

  Cathy let out a shriek of outrage as she saw his tall, strong figure through the rising steam of the shower. “Get out!”

  “Do you like your coffee black?” he repeated, obviously unmoved by her outrage.

  “Leave this room!”

  “Not until you tell me how you like your coffee,” he said easily, leaning against the sink, his eyes hooded in the hot steam. Cathy knew perfectly well the smoky glass of the shower made an adequate protection for those knowing hazel eyes, but at that point she wouldn’t have put it past him to open the shower door to get her attention.

  “I like it black and in private,” she ground out.

  He straightened to his full height, a good twelve inches over the top of the shower enclosure. She could see him towering over her, like Godzilla over a Japanese villag
e, she thought furiously.

  “Would you like me to wash your back?” he inquired sweetly. She took the wet washcloth and flung it over the door, watching it land with a satisfyingly wet smack full in his face.

  There was an ominous silence, with nothing but the sound of the shower in the small bathroom. Sin dropped the washcloth back over the shower stall, wiped his streaming face on the thick blue towel she’d left out, and let himself out of the bathroom without another word. As Cathy quickly finished her shower, she tried to rid herself of the ridiculous feeling of guilt that Sin’s silent exit had instilled in her. Perhaps she should have laughed it off, invited him to join her in the shower. After all, it wasn’t as if she was still an innocent.

  She dressed quickly in jeans and an oversized shirt before padding into the living room on bare feet. The room was transformed. Sin had pulled the drapes, picked up her spilled beer and the pillows and articles of clothing that she’d tossed about in a rage, and was now sitting on the sofa, his boot-clad feet up on the coffee table, casually drinking his coffee. Another cup was on the table in front of him, obviously meant for her. Cathy could see faint traces of water in his thick brown hair, but the hazel eyes that looked up at her were lacking anything other than polite interest.

  “I decided you’d rather have your coffee out here than have me bring it to you,” he said, his slow voice warming her. “I’ve already had one shower today.”

  With what grace she could muster she entered the room, picked up the coffee, and took a seat as far away from him as possible. “I have a temper,” she allowed, taking a sip of the coffee.

  “Apology accepted,” he replied.

  “There was none offered!” she snapped.

  “No? That’s what it sounded like,” he said, unmoved by her wrath. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  “You tried to call me?” she questioned, her feelings warming somewhat. Maybe it hadn’t been his fault that two weeks had gone by without a word.

  “All last night and this morning,” he confirmed, ruining her temporary mellowing.

  “I didn’t feel like talking to anyone,” she replied coldly, taking another sip of coffee. It was extraordinarily good coffee; thick and black and strong, and she found herself leaning back in her chair.

  “I gathered as much. I was hoping I could persuade you to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I don’t think-”

  He overrode her objections. “We’re leaving for St. Alphonse in a matter of days, with you and Meg following a week later. I thought it would be a good idea if I filled you in on the details. Where we’ll be staying, what we’ll be doing, what sort of stuff you’ll need to bring.”

  “I’ve been to the Caribbean before,” she said haughtily. “Besides, Meg could tell me all that.”

  “Meg and Charles have gone to visit his parents in Connecticut. Come on, Cathy, don’t be difficult. There’s no reason why we can’t be friends.”

  Yes, there is, she thought silently, taking in the long, lean beauty of him. “Of course we can be friends,” she said abruptly. “It’s just...”

  “You don’t have anything planned, do you?” As she shook her head he rose to his full height. “Well, then, that’s settled. I’ll be back here around seven. Have you ever eaten at Champetre?”

  Politeness forced her to rise and follow him to the door, politeness she wished she’d ignored as he towered over her, dwarfing her slender height. He was so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body, smell the faint, male smell of him, his bittersweet aftershave that had clung to the sweater. Keeping her face averted, she opened the door for him. One strong hand reached out and caught her willful chin, forcing her rebellious green eyes upward to meet his rueful hazel ones.

  “Cheer up, Cathy,” he said gently. “It won’t be so bad. I promise you, I can be a perfect gentle-man when the occasion calls for it.”

  “But will the occasion call for it?” she wondered aloud. And she also wondered if gentlemanly behavior was what she really wanted from him.

  His smile deepened, so that the one, unforgettable dimple appeared beside his sensuous mouth. Suddenly, as if on impulse, he bent down and brushed his lips against her unwary mouth. It was so fleeting Cathy wondered if she dreamed it. Sin straightened and moved away. “I’m afraid, knowing you, that I’ll have to be on my best behavior, or you won’t come with us to St. Alphonse.”

  “True enough,” she agreed, wondering if it really was. “Does it matter that much whether I come or not?”

  He nodded. “Meg really needs you.” They were not the words she would have chosen to hear. “See you at seven.”

  The door closed behind his broad shoulders with a tiny, well-oiled click. Cathy stood there, staring at the blank, white expanse of the door, lost in thought. Haven’t I learned my lesson, she demanded of herself dazedly. Haven’t I had enough of handsome men to last me a lifetime? With a sigh, she went back to her coffee, wondering what on earth she would wear that would both entice and discourage Sin MacDonald.

  In the end she settled on a simple black silk dress, one that clung to her high, firm breasts, swirled around her gently rounded hips and hugged her slender waist. It was a very deceiving dress, seemingly demure until Cathy’s graceful body moved beneath it. She both hoped and feared that Sin would notice.

  She shouldn’t have had any doubts. When he arrived at five past seven the look in his hazel eyes was both guarded and more than flattering. “That’s a very dangerous dress, Cathy Whiteheart,” he said in a low, deep voice after a long, silent stare.

  She controlled the impulse to say, “What, this old thing?” She had bought the dress for Greg, bought it the day she returned back home from shopping to find him in bed with a strange woman. She had never worn it, and suddenly she was glad she had decided to ignore her misgivings. It wasn’t the fault of the dress that she associated it with Greg. Besides, Georgia’s cutting words had an unpleasant edge of truth to them. The remainder of the clothes that took up only a small portion of the space in her walk-in closet were un-imaginative, unflattering pastels and flowered prints. She either looked like a schoolgirl or a housewife in most of them—even Greg at his most charming had been far from pleased with her wardrobe. But she had never had much interest in clothes. At least, not until recently.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you in the way of a drink.” She made her voice cool and composed, something she was far from feeling. The mere sight of his tall, strong body, clad in gray flannel slacks, a black turtleneck, and a Harris tweed jacket that showed off the set of his broad shoulders was enough to send her pulse racing. His lazy smile and the promise in his smoky hazel eyes just about proved her undoing.

  “That’s all right, Cathy.” He draped her jacket around her shoulders, the hands lingering for a delectable moment. “We can easily have a drink at the restaurant. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  For one mad, impetuous moment Cathy knew the overwhelming desire to lean her head against that broad, deep chest and close her eyes, give over her troubles and responsibilities into his large, capable hands. She looked up, her green eyes meeting his for a long, pregnant moment, and then she blinked rapidly, moving away. “We’d better leave,” she said, and her voice was noticeably shaky.

  Damn him and the devastating effect he had on her. Tender amusement lit his eyes as he took her unwilling arm. “Certainly, Cathy. It’s just as well. When I promised you could trust me to behave like a gentleman I didn’t know you were going to wear that dress.”

  His skin seemed to burn through her clothing. She couldn’t free herself from the nerve-shattering effect of his presence. In the luxurious confines of his BMW he seemed overwhelming, magnetic, and far more man than she was capable of dealing with at that point in her life. But the invisible wall she tried to erect toppled every time he smiled at her, touched her, and it took far too long to rebuild it each time. The day would come when she could no longer do so, and she didn’
t know whether she dreaded or longed for it.

  She had steeled herself for an ordeal during dinner, fending off all that flirtatious charm, but as they took their seats in the elegant, secluded confines of the restaurant Sin suddenly became completely businesslike, treating her with a polite, distant charm that left her both relaxed and ever so faintly disgruntled. She scarcely tasted the delicious food he ordered for her, drank far too much of the excellent Bordeaux, and watched the candlelit shadows play across his strongly handsome face with bemused fascination.

  That swift smile lit his face as he finished his brandy. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he asked. “You look like you’re in another world, although it’s obviously a much pleasanter place than the one you usually inhabit. What are you thinking about?”

  “You,” she answered forthrightly enough. “I know absolutely nothing about you. Do you work for a living?”

  The smile deepened. “Now and then.”

  “At what?” she persisted.

  “At whatever takes my interest at the time,” he replied. “Any more questions?”

  “If I had them, you’d be unlikely to answer,” she shot back, nettled.

  “How can you say such a thing?” he mocked gently. “Anyway, I bet I can answer them without your having to ask. I’m thirty-six years old, six feet four, two hundred and ten pounds, single, unemployed, unattached, and I drink Scotch.”

  “Fascinating,” she murmured.

  “And then we come to you. You’re five feet eight or nine, about a hundred and twenty pounds, twenty-six years old, independently wealthy, currently unemployed, unattached, and suffering from a mysterious and ill-advised broken heart. You drink imported beer and anything else I offer you, probably from a lack of interest rather than alcoholic tendencies. And for some reason I make you damned uncomfortable.”