Zane shrugged, taking a seat beside Whitney. “A man’s got to come up for air sometime.”
More discreet than her companion because she had much more to lose, Sally allowed her eyes to roam over Zane’s hard torso.
“You do it too quickly and you might get the bends,” she purred. Lips as scarlet as her dress drew back slowly in a smile that was meant to be exactly what it was. Seductive.
Whitney felt her temper rising. That and her hackles. Why did Zane want to be around these people, anyway?
She wished Quinton would stop looking at her like that, as if he were undressing her. And she wished that Zane would start looking at her that way. The kiss they’d shared, the first one as far as she was concerned, proved to Whitney that even if Zane might not be vocal about his feelings for her, they were certainly there.
Anticipation began to whisper through her. She turned toward Zane and smiled. She supposed she could put up with this for a while for his sake, since it seemed to mean so much to him. Once they were alone again, she was going to find out why it did.
Uncomfortable with not saying anything, she looked at Quinton. “Breakfast was very good. Thank you.”
“Breakfast?” For a moment, Quinton looked at her blankly, then remembered. “Oh, you mean the cart I had sent over.” He waved her thanks off as less than nothing. “It was the very least I could do, seeing as how I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your husband.”
Quinton frowned, annoyed when he thought of the incident. He didn’t believe in accidents. The car hadn’t just happened to be there. Someone had meant to kill him.
“I still haven’t managed to find out who the car belongs to.” The plates had turned out to belong to a man who had been dead more than three years. That, too, he knew was no accident. But a man in his position had a great many enemies. It was part of the territory.
Quinton wouldn’t find out about the driver anytime soon, Zane thought confidently.
Whitney could understand the other man’s impatience. “Sometimes it takes the police a while to track these things down.” She was relieved that Zane had explained the incident to her. At least she had something to talk about intelligently. She hated feeling out of it, or worse, like a dolt.
“Police?” The laugh had an amused, if disparaging, ring to it.
Whitney caught the glance Quinton exchanged with Sally. She’d obviously said something funny. Or stupid.
“My dear young woman, why would I bother calling the police in?”
Was this a trick question? “To track down the license?” Whitney said slowly.
She could see by Quinton’s expression that he did think she was lightweight as far as brains went. Whitney could feel her anger rising.
The light in her eyes was not an unfamiliar one to Zane. He placed a gentling hand over hers. It was meant to restrain her if necessary.
“I don’t need the police for that,” Quinton explained. “I have my own, more effective ways of looking into things.”
He regarded her for a moment, as if he was going to say something further, then let it go. Whitney had the distinct impression that he didn’t think it was worth the effort.
Instead, Quinton turned his attention to the silver bucket at his side. “Well, enough about unpleasantness. Who would like some champagne?” Not waiting for an answer, he drew the dark green bottle out.
She didn’t feel like drinking with them. And certainly not so early.
“It’s only one o’clock,” Whitney protested.
A tinge of contempt entered Sally’s eyes as she offered her glass to Quinton. Rather than fill it, he held the bottle out for Whitney’s glass, waiting. “Perhaps here, but it must be midnight somewhere.”
She saw the look in Zane’s eyes. He didn’t want her calling attention to herself. Resigned, she moved her glass forward.
“Yes,” she agreed, “I guess it must be.”
Chapter 4
Smooth—that was the word for the man. Richard Quinton was handsome, polished, sophisticated and he was knowledgeable on a variety of subjects. The perfect Renaissance man. And yet there was something about him, something Whitney couldn’t quite put her finger on, that made her uncomfortable.
Maybe he was too suave. He didn’t seem quite real to her.
The man’s eyes missed nothing. She could tell. They made her think of the eyes of a sleek jungle cat watching the brush, waiting for prey to emerge. Cold eyes. He was the kind of man she wouldn’t have wanted to number among her acquaintances. She wondered why Zane had been so eager to place him there.
They had sat at the umbrella-shaded table for the better part of an hour. Quinton had dominated most of the conversation. Sally barely joined in, except to agree with him in a distracted fashion. Whitney had a feeling Quinton didn’t appreciate her manner, though he said nothing. For the most part, it seemed to her that Quinton was sizing Zane up. The fact disturbed her and aroused protective feelings within her.
She thought longingly of an intimate lunch and knew it wasn’t going to happen. Zane looked perfectly content sitting here, talking to Quinton. He had the air of someone who had definitely settled in for a long visit. Maybe dinner would be better.
The conversation progressed by stages. As it went from general topics such as weather and accommodations to more specific things, Whitney could see the shift in attitude. Zane became more animated, more involved. He was doing more talking to Quinton than he had to her. Making the best of it, Whitney listened and tried to glean information.
Zane was just beginning to touch on things that piqued her curiosity when one of the costumed bellmen approached their table.
When she saw him, Whitney thought he was a waiter, but there was no menu tucked under his naked, muscular arm. Neither Quinton nor Sally gave any indication of interest in food. Lunch for them, apparently, was of the liquid variety.
The bellman leaned solicitously over Zane, causing the conversation to abruptly halt. “Excuse me, Mr. Russell?” Zane inclined his head in response. “There’s a telephone call for you.”
Whitney stared at the bellman, surprised that he was able to pick Zane out. There were so many people around the pool; how had he recognized Zane?
Quinton toasted Zane with what was left in his glass. “I’m impressed. They know who you are here.” The fact that they did placed Zane in a small, intimate group. The same one that he was in.
Zane casually lifted a shoulder and let it drop. His manner said that this was not anything new or surprising.
“It might be because I’m a large tipper.” Quinton, Zane knew, enjoyed having people dance attendance on him in hopes of being rewarded. He looked up at the outlandishly costumed man. “Can you bring a phone to the table for me, please?”
The bellman looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, but they’re all in use at the moment. I’m afraid that you’ll have to take the call at the front desk. Or I can take a message for you.”
Zane shook his head. “That wouldn’t be wise. Not if they think it’s important enough to track me down here and disrupt my honeymoon.”
They? Who are ‘they?’ Whitney wondered. And why was someone calling him here? She realized that though she had begun to ask several times, she still didn’t know what Zane did for a living. He’d either been interrupted or vague in his response.
Just as he had been about why they had to meet with Quinton.
Zane rose, a resigned expression on his face. “I’ll only be a minute,” he promised Quinton. Turning toward Whitney, he saw the tiny spark of panic entering her eyes. She didn’t want him to leave. He didn’t want to leave her alone with these people, either, but it was unavoidable. Adams wouldn’t have come looking for him if it hadn’t been. Something was up. He’d be as quick as he could.
Zane leaned over her and squeezed her hand. “It’s okay,” he whispered. His manner more than his words were meant to reassure her. He looked at Quinton before following the bellman. “Why don’t you entertain my wif
e while I’m gone?”
Quinton’s smile spread slowly as he looked at Whitney. “I would be honored.” The words were polite, harmless. She couldn’t have said the same about the look in his eyes.
She was being ridiculous, she upbraided herself. Was she that much of a coward that she needed her husband around constantly to hold her hand?
Zane appeared to already be forgotten as Quinton leaned over the table and took her hand. “So, Mrs. Russell, just how would you like to be entertained?”
It didn’t take a clairvoyant to tell her what Quinton would have had in mind, had they been alone.
Zane hurried away, wishing that Sheridan had picked his time better.
Trapped, Whitney decided to turn the situation to her advantage. Maybe she could find out a few things, such as why this man and Zane seemed to have an affinity for each other. She toyed with her glass. “You could tell me what you do for a living.”
Quinton’s brow rose sharply at the casual remark. Like a miser who had suddenly realized that a nickel was missing from his coffers.
His easygoing tone was in direct conflict with the expression in his eyes. “Now why would you want to know something as boring as that?”
Because I don’t have anything to say myself and I can’t just sit here like mindless dolt, searching for something to talk about.
From out of nowhere, a movie scenario came to her, and because she had no idea what her own personality was, Whitney slipped into the persona of an actress in a role. She was Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Elfin and charming. In a pinch, that would do nicely.
Turning the conversation around to Quinton, Whitney leaned forward, her head resting on her upturned palm. She looked at the large gold ring on his hand. There was a square-cut diamond in the center that rivaled hers. She’d already gotten the feeling that Quinton and monetary woes were not acquainted.
“It can’t be all that boring if you can afford a ring like that.”
Quinton looked at the ring as if he hadn’t seen it for quite some time.
For a moment, he watched the sun sparkle on the stone, then shifted his gaze to Whitney’s hand. “It pales in comparison to the one on your hand, my dear.”
He signaled to a waiter, holding the empty bottle aloft. The message was clear. Satisfied that the waiter understood, he slid the bottle back into the bucket. Ice water splashed over the side.
Quinton cocked his head as he appraised Whitney. “Do you like jewelry, Mrs. Russell?”
She knew that Zane would have wanted her to personalize the conversation and take it to the next plateau, but she couldn’t force herself to make the man call her by her first name. Instead, she smiled. “Yes, I do.”
Whitney didn’t have to be told that Quinton thought all women loved jewelry and clothes. For all his sophistication, he had the air of a man who had pigeonholed women. But for Whitney, the stones on her hand didn’t hold any particular interest, other than as a symbol of the bond she had with Zane. She said what she felt Quinton expected to hear. It was easier that way.
She looked at the tennis necklace around Sally’s neck. The woman was deliberately fingering it to call her attention to the stones. Whitney saw no harm letting the woman preen.
“That’s a beautiful necklace you have.”
The smile on Sally’s lips was coolly smug. “Yes, I know.” Her brown eyes slanted toward Quinton. “It was given to me as a token of appreciation.”
The waiter returned with another bottle of champagne, standing to Quinton’s right. The smile on Quinton’s lips froze. It matched the frost in his eyes.
“My left, you dolt. Hasn’t anyone trained you properly? You’re supposed to stand on my left.”
As if prodded by the point of a sword, the waiter quickly moved to Quinton’s other side. The scowl lifted as Quinton took the bottle from him. “That’s better.”
Sally noticed the confused look in Whitney’s eyes. She took pleasure in enlightening her. “Richard has superstitions.”
Whitney couldn’t quite tell if the fact amused the woman or not. She didn’t risk a smile, but her eyes told another story.
“Patterns,” Quinton corrected her. “Patterns I see no reason to go against. You change a pattern, you change things that depend on them for an outcome.” He looked kindly at Whitney. “Sometimes, however, a change is for the good. Such as you and your husband appearing when you did on the golf course yesterday. You realize, of course, that this makes you my good-luck charms now?”
She didn’t know if he was kidding. She had an uneasy feeling that he was very serious, despite the smile on his lips.
Well, this was certainly getting uncomfortable. Whitney glanced around, hoping to see Zane walking toward them. He’d promised to be right back. How many minutes were there in “right back,” anyway?
Whitney pushed back her chair. “Maybe I should see what’s keeping Zane,” she suggested to her host, rising to her feet.
Quinton stopped pouring champagne and caught her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist like a tight-fitting band. Whitney didn’t know who was more surprised—she or Sally.
“Surely you don’t plan to desert me, as well, do you?” He set the bottle on the table beside his glass as he looked up at her. Whitney tried not to stiffen as she felt Quinton run his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “You know,” he began speculatively, “your wrist is quite dainty. It strikes me as being just the right size for a bracelet that has recently come into my possession. Diamond. Five carats.” He said the words matter-offactly as he watched her face. “A client couldn’t pay his bill. He tendered the bracelet to me instead. I’ve been debating what to do with it ever since.”
Whitney looked at Sally. Was this the man’s way of getting back at the woman for her comment about his having superstitions? Anger glinted in Sally’s eyes, but she said nothing.
“I’m afraid my husband wouldn’t like that,” Whitney informed him politely. “Perhaps you should give it to Sally.”
“I’ll decide who to give it to.”
This was much too uncomfortable for her to endure alone. Slipping her hand from his grasp, Whitney began to back away. “I really think I should see what’s keeping Zane. This isn’t like him.” She had no way of knowing whether it was or not; she knew only that she wanted to get away for a little while. “He really shouldn’t keep you waiting like this.”
Quinton had never been accused of displaying false modesty. “I’m not accustomed to being kept waiting. Not without entertainment.”
There was no way she was going to provide that any longer. “I’ll be right back,” she promised. When pigs fly, she thought, if she had her way.
Without sparing either of them a backward glance, Whitney hurried toward the hotel door. Once inside the hotel, she discovered that her mind wasn’t the only thing that was disoriented. She had a complete lack of a sense of direction. There were too many people in the way for her to get her bearings. Which way was the front desk?
She stopped the first bellman she saw and asked directions. Repeating them to herself like a chant, she finally arrived at the desk. Her heart sank. Zane was nowhere in sight.
Where had he gone?
Feeling a little desperate, Whitney approached the man behind the reservations desk. “Excuse me, could you tell me where Mr. Russell went?”
Without turning his head, the man raised his eyes from the computer screen. His fingers remained poised on the keys. The smile he offered was both bright and without substance. It was exercised over a hundred times a day. “Who?”
Whitney couldn’t shake the edgy feeling wafting through her. It might have originated in her amnesia, but it was steadily growing larger. It was as if everything she came in contact with insisted on contributing to it.
“The man who took a call here.”
The clerk looked at her blankly. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He looked back at the screen and began to type. “No one took a call at the desk during my watch.”
&nbs
p; Whitney leaned over and placed her hand over his, stilling the soft clatter of keys. He looked at her patiently, silently waiting for her to continue.
“The bellman just came for him. At the pool. He said there was a call for my husband.” Whitney said each word slowly, as if that would make him understand. She could feel her frustration building.
The clerk looked down at her hand and waited until she withdrew it before he replied. His tone was patronizing. “If there was a call for your husband, the bellman would have brought a telephone to your table.” He began typing again.
An impatient sigh escaped her lips. “The bellman said that they were all being used.”
The man ceased typing. His expression never changed as he reached down behind the desk and produced a small telephone. Then he spared her a smile meant for a mentally challenged individual.
“Hardly. I assure you that there are more where that came from.”
She didn’t understand, not any of it. Why would the bellman say there were no telephones available if there were? And where was Zane? Why had he just disappeared? There had to be some explanation.
Whitney looked around, feeling a little desperate. “Is there another front desk somewhere?”
Thinking himself the target of a prank, the clerk’s manner became distant. “Yes. But that would be at another hotel. I’m afraid.”
He wasn’t going to be any help. Whitney backed away from the desk as a man in a Stetson ushered a large-boned woman swaddled in a full-length fur coat forward. The woman appeared to be quite oblivious to the temperature outside.
“We’d like a room,” the man announced in a booming voice. “The name’s Allen. Kiki and Jordan.”
“Make sure they give you a telephone,” Whitney murmured to the man as she walked away.
Whitney dragged her hand through her hair. There had to be some mistake. Where could Zane have gone? Everyone couldn’t be lying to her, and yet nothing was making any sense.
She had no choice but to return to the table at poolside. Maybe Zane was back. She fervently hoped so. She felt completely adrift right now and he was her only anchor.
The Amnesiac Bride Page 5
