As she was introduced to people, she didn’t even try to remember names. One woman, however, was hard to ignore: Kara Greene, Bradburn’s agent and the hostess of the party. The heavily made-up, fortyish brunette darted here and there, gossiping, networking, making sure everyone was having a good time.
“He’s gonna kill me,” Kara was telling Mike, with an impish grin. “He’s gonna strangle me for throwing him this party. Well, you know what I say to that—too damn bad, that’s what I say. The old fuddy-duddy needs this. He works too damn hard.”
Mike tossed back the last of his martini and let his small, close-set eyes rove the room, taking no pains to hide his boredom with the garrulous agent.
“Oh Gawd!”
Leah followed Kara’s gaze and saw someone near the doors—the designated lookout, apparently—frantically waving his arms at her and mouthing, He’s here! Kara dashed to the light switches. Music and voices dissolved at her urgent shushing; the chandeliers and wall sconces blinked off one by one.
The room had an otherworldly feel as Leah stood there in the near dark, cheek to jowl with scores of strangers, listening to their whispers, inhaling their mingled perfumes. One side of the room was bathed in a warm orange glow from the twin hearths. She looked toward the French doors and the windows, where silvery moonlight streamed in, reflecting off the swirling snowflakes and the white veneer that now blanketed the lawn.
“Shhh!” The agent’s authoritative hiss had its desired effect—total silence save for the crackle of the fires. In the front hall outside the ballroom could be heard an impatient baritone and an equally insistent Scottish burr—Bradburn’s elderly housekeeper, Mary. It was her job to get him into the room on some pretext. Someone in the ballroom giggled softly.
At the sound of Bradburn’s voice, the dark flower of hate blossomed and grew inside Leah like a living thing, a thing to be nurtured. In the end the persistent Mary had her way. The heavy oak doors swung open and light flooded the room.
“SURPRISE!”
Leah stopped breathing. She could only stare in astonishment at the tall, snow-dusted man who seemed to fill the doorway in which he stood. Collar-length black hair framed a striking face with the profile of a Roman emperor. And like Caesar, his very presence commanded respect, even under the circumstances, as he took in the entire preposterous situation with one sweep of his ice blue gaze. That gaze became dangerously intense as it scoured the room once more, with the deadly resolve of a hunter seeking his prey.
As Leah gaped at this man and reminded herself to breathe, one inescapable fact became clear.
This wasn’t James Bradburn.
She mentally shook herself. The man standing in the doorway pushing long fingers through snow-dampened hair was not gray and wizened. Far from it. She looked past him, but his only companion was little Mary, grinning hugely. Leah watched the other guests laugh and shake the man’s hand as Mary wrestled the heavy shearling jacket off his broad shoulders.
James. Mr. Bradburn. That was what they were calling him. Leah squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her aching forehead, wondering where her plans had gone awry. When she opened them, she stopped breathing. James Bradburn was staring past the throng of guests, his penetrating gaze focused directly on her. She found herself backing up.
“Hey, where ya going, magnolia?” Mike grabbed her arm.
Suddenly the enormous room begin to close in on her. “Gotta get some air.” She wrenched out of his grasp and bolted through the crowd to the French doors. Outside, on the terrace, she took a few deep, fortifying breaths. She welcomed the biting cold—it helped clear her head as she struggled to assess the situation. Leah watched her own frosty breath mingle with the pirouetting snowflakes, which caught the light from the ballroom in myriad pinpoints of fire, like sparks floating down from heaven. The gardens and endless expanse of grounds beyond were already blanketed.
Had Annie ever stood out here, on this precise spot on a late February night, and watched snowflakes dance and stick to her eyelashes? Leah squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to think about it. Not one tear, damn it. No more tears.
She turned and gazed at the imposing rear facade of the great house, as intimidating as the front. An hour earlier, as she and Mike had driven through the stone and wrought-iron gates of Whitewood, the Bradburn family estate, she’d felt as if she’d been there before. Gravel had crunched under the tires of Mike’s Mercedes as they’d made their way down the quarter-mile-long drive from the road to the stately home whose windows glowed in mute welcome. She remembered thinking it looked like a magazine ad for single-malt Scotch.
Leah hadn’t been surprised at the sensation of déjà vu. While her companion had yammered self-importantly about his connection to the illustrious photographer, Leah had found herself wondering what Mike’s reaction would be were he to find out how much she already knew about Whitewood and its century-old English-style stone manor house. She could have told him the estate’s two hundred acres boasted an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis courts, and an apple orchard. Not to mention the summerhouse and carriage barn.
Mike’s grating voice horned in on her thoughts. “Bet you don’t see much snow in Kansas, huh, Dorothy?”
She turned to see him peering in slack-jawed befuddlement at the snowflakes melting on his outthrust hand. “Lookee, Paw, lookee! Thar’s a heap a’ cold, white stuff a-comin’ outta the—”
“You’re repulsive, Mike.”
“Huh?”
“I said, you’re impulsive. Such a fun, impulsive guy.” When Leah looked into her date’s little eyes, she couldn’t help picturing Mavis Fletcher’s prize sow Gertie in a two-thousand-dollar silk suit and a gold Tag Heuer watch. She desperately wanted to leave the party, and was about to say so when she remembered how many martinis Mike had downed. Even if he’d been stone-cold sober, the way he was leering at her settled the matter. She wasn’t getting in a car with him again. There had to be plenty of other guests driving back to Manhattan. She’d have no problem getting a ride.
Shivering, Leah hugged herself and stamped her feet. She’d just turned to rejoin the party when Mike seized her shoulders in his beefy hands.
“Looks like you could use a little warmin’ up, Miz Scarlett.” He tightened his grip, a smarmy grin on his face. “I bet some things are the same everywhere. You ever take the boys out to the pasture? Huh?”
Sure enough—we just love to roll around in all those cow pies, you ignorant slob.
Knowing she’d never be able to suffer his kiss without retching, she twisted away just as his wet mouth zeroed in. “Brrrr! It’s freezing out here.” She darted back into the ballroom and brushed the snow off her dress.
Mike’s voice behind her was a dangerous growl. “Listen, you little tease—”
“Mike! Where ya been, man?”
Leah turned to see a skinny man wearing an expensive leather jacket and a surly expression. His significant other stood nearby, looking bored.
“Hey! Tim, Wanda, what kept you?” Mike’s mood did an instantaneous about-face. “Want you to meet someone. This little Georgia peach here is Dorothy.”
She sighed. “Leah Harmony.” At least Georgia peach was an improvement over cow pie.
“Whatever.” Mike waylaid a waiter. “Grey Goose martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist.” He turned back to his friends. “Leah here works for some catalog outfit, isn’t that right, babe?”
“I own Harmony Grits, a mail-order company specializing in southern foods. Pleased to meet you.”
“Yeah, hi.” Tim didn’t smile or shake the hand she offered. Wanda simply ignored her.
Tim mumbled, “Got something for you, man.”
“Uh...yeah.” Mike’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Uh, listen, Dorothy, me and my friends, we’re gonna go take care of some business, know what I mean?” He tapped his nose and sniffed meaningfully. “Wanna join us? You country girls go in for that kind of thing?”
“Listen, sugah, y
ou go have yourself some fun. My taste runs more to home-brewed moonshine.”
“`Home-brewed moonshine’! Love it!” he hooted. “Jest gotta keep it away from them revenoors, right?” He patted her cheek. “I’ll be back in a snort and a half, babe. Don’t go anywhere.”
Leah was grateful for the respite, however brief. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She’d been awake for forty hours, nervous anticipation having robbed her of sleep the night before. For hours she’d stared out the window of her twelfth-floor room in the Millennium Hotel near Times Square, oblivious to the glittering spectacle of Broadway stretched out below her.
She’d flown up to New York from Little Rock three days earlier. Three days of angling to get within spitting distance—literally—of James Bradburn. Now she had only one goal: to make a quick getaway while avoiding both her escort and the disturbing guest of honor.
She felt a hand on her arm and looked into Kara Greene’s warm brown eyes. The agent spoke sotto voce, woman to woman. “Look, hon, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and maybe I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong—but hey, when has that ever stopped me? Let me guess. You’re fresh off the turnip wagon from somewhere south of Wall Street, yes?”
Leah laughed.
“You just met that pig Mike Carleton, like, yesterday, am I right?” Kara didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m right. Trust me, hon. I mean, you seem like a nice girl—that’s why I’m saying this. Find another ride home. I’ll give you a lift back to the city myself. You hear what I’m saying? You don’t know the guy. I do.”
Leah smiled. She liked Kara already. “No problem. I kind of figured that one out for myself.”
“Good girl.” Kara squeezed her hand.
“Kara, maybe you can clear something up for me. I thought Bradburn was—”
Kara jerked her head toward something behind Leah. “Whatever it is, you can ask him yourself.”
Leah whirled around and saw the object of her confusion closing in on them with long-legged strides. She swallowed hard.
“Kara...dear, sweet Kara...” Bradburn’s voice was a deep rumble, his smile menacing. “You shouldn’t have.”
Leah’s knees went weak with relief. Bradburn was practically on top of her, but his attention was directed at his agent. He wore a black wool turtleneck, faded blue jeans, and scuffed leather boots. His straight black hair was pushed back from his face and nearly grazed his shoulders. Leah was close enough to detect the warmth of his body and his clean, masculine scent.
Kara burst into laughter and winked impudently at James. The feisty agent was about five feet tall, and he was easily six four.
“You don’t scare me, James, so you can drop the fire-breathing act.” Kara snared a passing waiter. “Get Mr. Bradburn a double Maker’s Mark. Make that a triple. He needs it. Happy thirty-fifth birthday, you ungrateful beast.” She stretched up on tiptoes to peck his cheek, her eyes still sparking with mischief.
A small crowd had formed around the pair, and Leah felt herself being pushed even closer to the big man. She was annoyed with herself, with her own trip-hammer heartbeat, the way her breath snagged in her chest. She’d have given anything at that moment to be able to slither away.
“This is war, Greene,” he challenged. “I’ll retaliate when you least expect it—perhaps for your fiftieth birthday. Next month, isn’t it?”
A chorus of “whoas” and “ouches” accompanied this wicked jab as the crowd warmed to the battle. Kara shrieked with laughter, while James appeared to be struggling to suppress a grin.
The waiter returned and reached past Leah to deliver a cut-crystal rocks glass filled to the brim with bourbon and ice. Someone jostled the waiter and he barreled into Leah. She slammed up against James’s hard chest and reflexively pushed him away, just as he gingerly took possession of the glass.
A wave of cold liquor struck her face—a direct hit. Astonishment snatched the air from her lungs. The crowd receded as ice skidded across the parquet floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for sudden death, the humiliation of Leah Harmony having been successfully completed.
A pair of large, heavy hands closed on her shoulders, steadying her. Through stubbornly closed eyelids she detected the searing heat of a blue-fire gaze. At length James’s patience won out and grudgingly she looked up into eyes the color of a wide Arkansas sky. There were undertones of appreciation in his bold scrutiny. And amusement. A few people tittered, but he silenced them with a glance.
James accepted a towel from a waiter and gently wiped Leah’s face, all the while examining her with undisguised interest, from sullen hazel eyes to bourbon-spattered shoes. She felt the stinging heat of a blush crawl up her neck.
“Well, whoever you are,” he chuckled, “I must say you hold your liquor well.”
The crowd erupted in laughter while Leah’s cheeks burned hotter still. Kara clucked like a mother hen and wiped Leah’s dress with a napkin. “Oh Gawd, this is just great. Bourbon. You’ll stink to high heaven. Mary!” she bellowed, and hustled her out the doorway into the front hall, a room of intricate woodwork, pink marble, and leaded glass. There the elderly Scottish housekeeper assessed her condition in one swift glance and immediately took charge.
“I dinna know why things ha’ to get so wild. Poor duck.” Mary started up the winding staircase, and Leah had no choice but to follow along docilely. Her head was pounding and she felt light-headed. She gripped the mahogany banister for support. She’d sort out this mess tomorrow, she decided. Tonight Kara would give her a ride back to the city, and she’d have a chance to rest and think.
Mary led her down a hallway into a large, old-fashioned bathroom that looked as if it might have once been a bedroom. The first thing she noticed was the huge claw-footed, rolled-edge bathtub. It reminded her of the one in her parents’ house in Arkansas, only this one was in perfect condition, with state-of-the-art polished brass and enamel fixtures.
A mahogany chest of drawers dominated one wall; Mary extracted a white towel and washcloth from one of the drawers and handed them to Leah. The floor was bleached oak partially covered with an oval braided rug. An oak-framed mirror hung over the old-fashioned pedestal sink. In the corners were an antique Windsor chair and a coat tree.
“I’ll take yer shoes and bag and get them cleaned up, lass. And give me that dress and your hose. I’ll run them through the machine.”
Leah dabbed at the stains with a damp washcloth. “Oh, uh...that’s okay, I’ll just—”
“Good Lord above, ye canna be goin’ round drenched in spirits, smellin’ like a godforsaken bourbon distillery. I’ll get yer clothes clean and dry. Then ye can go back downstairs and get some proper Scotch whiskey poured on ye.” Mary’s tone brooked no opposition; briskly she unbuttoned the damp khaki dress. When Leah was down to bra and panties, Mary grabbed a red silk kimono from the coat tree and bundled her into it.
The kimono felt like heaven next to her skin. It was much too large for her, making her feel all the more helpless and coddled. She found herself breathing deeply to inhale the faint fragrance that permeated the silk...warm, masculine, a bit spicy. Without warning, she recalled being pressed against James Bradburn, and to her annoyance, she blushed anew.
Leah washed the bourbon off her face and neck, then Mary led her down the hallway to a room that smelled of leather and lemon oil. It was a masculine room, furnished in dark oak and green leather. The floor-to-ceiling shelves lining every wall were crammed with books. A navy and cream Oriental carpet warmed her toes. Clearly this was James Bradburn’s library.
“Pick up a book and I’ll be back before you know it.” Mary peered closely at Leah. “Ach, you look exhausted, lass. It’ll be an hour at least before you have your dress back. There’s a nice cozy guest room across the hall. Why don’t you go lie down awhile? I’ll just leave your things on this desk if you’re not here.” She looked down. “So there ye are, Stieglitz.”
Leah followed Mary’s gaze to the carpet, where
a large black cat rubbed itself languorously against the housekeeper’s legs. He repeated the caress on Leah, sliding against the kimono and disappearing inside the voluminous folds of silk to rub against her legs.
“Why, Stieglitz, ye rude old tom,” Mary scolded. “Aren’t ye ashamed now?” A deep purr was his only response.
“It’s all right,” Leah said, leaning down to stroke the animal’s shiny black fur, “I like cats.” The purr turned into a loud rumble of contentment, like a well-oiled engine. Leah laughed.
“‘Twould seem the feelin’s mutual,” Mary observed. “Ye should feel honored. Old Stieglitz is a cranky thing; he only tolerates me because I feed ‘im. Now, dinna go pesterin’ this young lady, ye hear me? She’s got no treats for ye, old fool.”
“Mary, can I ask you something?”
“Fire away.”
“I thought Mr. Bradburn was a much older man. In his sixties?”
“Why, lass, ye be thinkin’ of James Bradburn, Sr. The lad’s father passed on three years ago March. Of course, he was a fine photographer himself, but if ye be wantin’ my opinion, the young one’s the better of the two. Not to speak ill of the dearly departed, mind you.”
Mary’s words confirmed Leah’s suspicions. Conflicting emotions warred within her and she was grateful she wouldn’t have to face anyone for a while. “Thanks, Mary. And thanks so much for cleaning my things.”
“Don’t mention it, lass.”
Once she was alone in the library, Leah browsed the shelves. Mary’s offer of the guest room was tempting, but she didn’t want to risk dozing off and missing her ride. “Well, Stieglitz, what shall we read, hmm?” Finally she selected one of the myriad books of photographs James owned, this one featuring pictures of children. She curled up on an armchair with Stieglitz and the volume on her lap and struggled to stay awake as the minutes ticked by.
From down the hall came the thunderous sound of a door slamming, accompanied by a muffled curse. Leah’s brow wrinkled. She’d thought she was alone on the second floor. More doors opened and closed, closer now.
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