Someone to Watch Over Me

by Judith McNaught

  He eyed her for a long moment, standing in the foyer, his coat over his arm. “It strikes me as corny and meaningless.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Because,” he said bluntly, “it is corny and meaningless.”

  Courtney had been prepared to either like him or dislike him, but she had not expected to find him . . . interesting. She rarely met anyone over thirty who was interesting, and according to her preliminary research, Michael Patrick Valente was not only over thirty, he was one year past forty. He was also one quarter Irish—on his grandmother’s side—three inches over six feet in height, and he preferred custom-tailored suits from Savile Row. He had a hard jaw, thick dark hair, straight brows, and interesting eyes—eyes that were narrowed on her at the moment.

  “Are you planning to invite me in?” he asked.

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. Do you play gin?”

  “Is Mrs. Manning home?” he replied.

  “Not yet, but O’Hara and I are in the kitchen. Why don’t you join us there?”

  He looked relieved at the mention of O’Hara’s name, and after handing her his coat to hang up, he accompanied her to the kitchen. Courtney stopped in the doorway and let him precede her; then she leaned against the doorframe as she had the last time he’d been there and studied his profile at her leisure. She knew he’d served four years in prison for manslaughter and spent his free time there reading law books in the prison library. She also knew he’d spent the next six years working and earning an undergraduate degree with a dual major and a 3.9 average from the State University of New York at Stony Brook and the two years after that getting his MBA from Harvard.

  O’Hara started forward as soon as he saw Valente walk into the kitchen, but Valente was blocking O’Hara’s view of Courtney in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” O’Hara said, “but Mrs. Manning isn’t home yet, and so I never got a chance to tell her you were coming over.”

  “That’s okay,” Valente said. “I haven’t any plans for the evening.” He reached out and shook O’Hara’s hand, a smile lurking at his mouth. “Are you playing governess, as well as bodyguard and chauffeur these days, Bruiser?”

  “You’re talking about Courtney,” Joe guessed. “No, I’m playing gin rummy with her and for once I’m not getting my ass whipped. We may have a while to wait before Mrs. Manning gets back. You want some coffee or wine or something?”

  “Coffee sounds good. Black.”

  Joe poured coffee into a cup and handed it to him. “You want to wait in the living room?”

  “No, I like it better in here.”

  “It’s real cozy,” he agreed. He glanced uncertainly at the table where he’d been playing cards with Courtney, as if he couldn’t decide whether it was more appropriate to clear the cards away for the guest in the kitchen, or to invite the guest—who was actually a coconspirator—to join Courtney and him at the table.

  Courtney had absolutely no interest in being appropriate and had a very strong desire to capitalize on this golden opportunity to spend time with a notoriously illusive billionaire with a criminal record and a history of ongoing clashes with the legal system. “Why don’t we all sit down at the table,” she suggested.

  Relieved that she’d made the decision for him, O’Hara picked up his beer from the counter and walked over to the table. Valente sat down next to him and casually propped his elbow on the back of his chair. Courtney sat down next to Valente and opposite O’Hara. In the awkward silence that briefly followed, she decided the best way to accomplish her immediate goal was probably to force both men into a state of relaxed congeniality, whether they wanted it or not. She picked up the deck of cards, split it, and let the cards cascade into place with a whoosh and a snap. She repeated the process twice more, and dealt O’Hara a hand.

  “Go on with your game,” Valente politely urged the chauffeur. “I didn’t mean to interrupt it.”

  “You can play the winner,” Courtney informed Valente, giving him no choice in the matter. She dealt out the cards to O’Hara, but all her conversation was aimed at Valente. “Joe was telling me that you and Leigh are old friends?”

  When Valente didn’t answer, she was forced to look up inquiringly from her hand. Valente’s only response was to quirk one eyebrow at her.

  “If I remember correctly,” she continued a moment later, “Joe said you knew each other when Leigh was in college.” When he still didn’t answer, she glanced sideways at him and drew a card. This time, he raised both brows and looked speculatively at her.

  “I think Joe also mentioned that—at some point—you saved Leigh from a mugging?” Frustrated by his silence, she discarded the card she meant to keep. “Is that right?” she demanded a little testily, looking at him. The lights in the kitchen were slightly dimmed, but there was enough light for Courtney to catch the spark of amusement in his eyes. O’Hara drew his next card; then Courtney drew hers, started to discard it, rolled her eyes in frustration, and laid down her hand instead. “Gin!” she declared.

  Valente’s shoulders started to shake with laughter. Confusion and uncertainty were emotions Courtney was accustomed to evoking in others; she wasn’t accustomed to experiencing them personally. The sensation was so novel that she rather admired Valente for putting her into that unaccustomed emotional state; however, she had no idea what he was finding so amusing, and she did not intend to let the status quo continue.

  She picked up the deck and shuffled the cards. “Let’s make it interesting,” she said to Valente, dealing out both hands with the skill and speed of a professional gambler.

  Forced into playing gin with her, he slowly removed his arm from the back of the chair, picked up his hand, and lazily inquired, “How interesting?” at the same time his discard hit the center of the table.

  He was very quick, trying to rattle her and force her to play too fast. “Twenty dollars a point,” she replied, ignoring Joe’s horrified gasp, and making her own discard.

  “Can you afford to lose that much?”

  “Yes,” she replied, making her next play. “Can you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Courtney drew a card, but paused so that she could look at him as she answered. “I think you don’t like to lose,” she told him. “Not money, not at cards, and not at anything else either.” She laid down her discard and waited for him to take the bait and say something informative.

  He glanced at her discard and said, “Gin.”

  “What! I don’t believe you!” she exclaimed, leaning forward to look at the cards he’d fanned out for her inspection. She stared in disbelief at a hand that was nowhere near a winning one. “What is that supposed to be?” she demanded, scowling.

  “At twenty dollars a point, I’d say that’s either a used car or a fur coat for you.”

  Courtney gazed at him, caught somewhere between irritation and bafflement. “I don’t want a car or a fur coat.”

  “You don’t?” he said smoothly, shoving the cards toward her so that she could deal them again if she chose. “Then why are we playing for twenty dollars a point?”

  Without taking her eyes from his face, Courtney slowly picked up the cards and began to shuffle them. She smiled because she couldn’t help it. She smiled because she thought he was actually quite handsome. She smiled because she thought he was inscrutable, complicated, clever, and very possibly dangerous. She smiled because she thought he was awesome. But then a thought hit her and she suspended her good opinion, pending his answer. “By any chance,” she said, watching him closely as she dealt the next hand, “did you do that because you thought I couldn’t afford to pay twenty dollars a point if I lost?”

  “No. I imagine your allowance is big enough to cover your gambling losses.”

  “Why, specifically, would you think that? It can’t be the way I’m dressed.”

  “Aren’t you Noah Maitland’s sister?”

  Courtney nodded. “How did you know?”

&n
bsp; “I’ve met your brother.”

  A horrible thought struck Courtney, one that made her forget all about her cards. “Noah didn’t—testify—against you, or anything, did he?”

  He laughed, and it had a deep, rich sound, but a rusty one, too, as if he didn’t laugh often. “No. He and I were involved in a deal together a few years ago, and I saw you when I was meeting with him at your house in Palm Beach.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her, and she settled down to play gin with a man who had turned out to be a challenge. A difficult challenge. A surprisingly difficult challenge.

  Chapter 43

  * * *

  Leigh let herself into the apartment and heard Courtney’s laughter coming from the kitchen as she hung her coat in the front closet. O’Hara was laughing, too, and the sound of their raised, cheerful voices sounded foreign and out of place. Laughter had been absent from her home in the month since Logan left for the cabin in the mountains.

  Christmas had passed by two days ago with nothing to mark it, not even a Christmas tree or the garlands trimmed in ribbon that she usually draped across the mantel at Christmastime. The mantel was empty except for stacks of unread Christmas cards. She’d ordered gifts from the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalogue for Hilda, Brenna, Courtney, and O’Hara. She hadn’t bothered with anyone else.

  Somber silence had hung over her home like a giant pall, thick and heavy, but protective, too, insulating her from the need to talk, or express her feelings, or even acknowledge them. She no longer wept. She had no tears left, no feelings to burst to the surface and suddenly wound her. She was numb now, and safe. Quiet.

  At this moment, however, that insulating buffer of quietude was being disrupted by laughing voices in the kitchen, and she followed the sound.

  O’Hara saw her first and jumped up guiltily, almost overturning his chair. “Would you like some hot coffee?” he burst out. “We got company. Look who’s here—”

  Leigh stopped short, taken aback by the sight of Michael Valente, who’d evidently been playing cards with her chauffeur and her teenage neighbor. He stood up slowly, a solemn smile on his face—a man who knew he shouldn’t be where he was, but who was determined to be there anyway. She read all of that, and more, in his expression as he walked toward her, but she felt unable to do anything except stand there when he stopped in front of her.

  He lifted his hand, and she started to raise hers for what she thought would be a handclasp, but his hand bypassed hers and settled under her chin. With narrowed eyes, he turned her face slightly to the right, then slightly to the left, inspecting it, and she simply let him do it, her own eyes wide and unblinking.

  He was an old friend, and by now she already knew the sort of murmured concerns that old friends—the true ones and the false ones—all said to her when they saw her. She waited for him to say “How are you feeling?” or “Are you doing all right?”

  Instead, he dropped his hand and stood there, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the room, his deep voice tinged with a pretense of hurt feelings. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I feel, Leigh?”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief, and shock tore a forgotten response from her. Leigh laughed. She held out her hands to him, but her laughter dissolved as suddenly as it swelled to the surface, leaving behind a sudden, over-whelming impulse to cry. She clamped down on the impulse, and forced herself to keep smiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “How are you feeling?” It took her a moment to realize he was switching roles completely with her.

  “I feel like hell,” he said somberly, “I ache all over, but mostly inside. Everything I believed in turned out to be wrong, and the people I trusted betrayed me. . . .” To her horror, Leigh felt tears flood her eyes and spill over her cheeks as he continued quietly, “I can’t sleep, because I’m afraid I’ll start dreaming. . . .”

  She reached up to brush the tears away, but he pulled her forcefully into his arms and pressed her face against his chest. “Cry, Leigh,” he whispered. “Cry.”

  Moments before, he’d made her laugh; now she found herself sobbing helplessly, her shoulders shaking with the force of her pent-up anguish. She would have pulled away and run, but his arms tightened around her when she tried, and his hand cradled her face, his fingers tenderly stroking her cheek. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered when the flood of tears finally began to recede. “I promise,” he added, offering her a handkerchief with one hand.

  She took it and leaned back in the circle of his arms, wiping her eyes, too embarrassed to look at him. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get over this,” she admitted.

  He put his hand beneath her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You aren’t suffering from terminal cancer or any other incurable disease, so you can get over it. You have the power to decide how long, and how badly, you’re willing to go on suffering for your husband’s betrayals and your misplaced love.”

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I’ve gotten angry at times, but it doesn’t help.”

  “Anger is nothing but self-inflicted torture.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, for your own self-respect, I think you might feel better if you fought back and got even with him.”

  “Fine!” she said tearily. “Get a shovel and we’ll dig him up!”

  He laughed, and pulling her close, he laid his jaw against the top of her head. “I like your spirit,” he said with tender amusement, “but let’s start with something a little less strenuous.”

  Self-conscious about standing in his embrace, Leigh stepped back after a moment and managed a halfhearted smile. “What do you recommend?”

  “I recommend that you have dinner with me tonight.”

  “All right. I’ll ask Hilda to fix—”

  “Not here.”

  “Oh, you mean a restaurant? I don’t think—No, really—”

  He looked as if he wanted to argue, but she shook her head, appalled at the thought of having to face the prying eyes of strangers and the inevitable pack of reporters who would surely turn up before they finished eating. “Not a restaurant. Not yet.”

  “Here, then,” he agreed.

  “I’d like to shower and change clothes,” she said. “Would you mind waiting for me for a half hour?”

  The question seemed to amuse him. “Not at all,” he said with exaggerated formality. “Please take all the time you need.”

  Disconcerted by the hint of mocking humor in his reply, Leigh headed toward her bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment.

  Michael watched her walk away. Did he mind waiting a half hour for her?

  Not at all.

  He’d been waiting years for her.

  Belatedly recalling that he’d been playing cards with O’Hara and Courtney Maitland when Leigh walked into the kitchen, he turned abruptly. Courtney was staring at him, transfixed; O’Hara was standing beside his chair, frozen in the same position he’d been in when he first announced to Leigh that Michael was there.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Michael lifted his brows and returned their stunned gazes in wordless acknowledgment of what he knew they were thinking.

  Courtney finally reached for her purse and slowly stood up. “I have—” She paused to clear her throat. “I have to go now.”

  Her words seemed to release O’Hara from his own paralysis. “I’ll tell Hilda to fix a nice dinner,” he said, sidling along between the island and the kitchen counter, toward the rear hall.

  Courtney started past Michael, then paused and looked searchingly at him.

  “Yes?” he prompted her after a moment.

  She shoved the strap of her purse onto her shoulder and shook her head at whatever she’d been thinking. “Good night,” she said instead.

  “Good night.”

  As she reached for the service door that opened from the kitchen into the elevator foyer, she glanced over her shoulder at him one more time, and when she sp
oke she no longer sounded like a flippant teenager. “Leigh told me once that she loves to sit in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace.”

  Chapter 44

  * * *

  Michael tossed another log onto the fire he’d built in the fireplace and used the poker to move it back farther on the grate. In the dining room, Hilda was setting the table for dinner. Straightening, he brushed off his hands and stood up just as Leigh walked into the living room wearing a long, belted cream wool dress with large covered buttons down the front, a wide collar, and full sleeves.

  It reminded him of a dressy robe until he realized that was purely wishful thinking.

  “You’ve built a fire,” she said as he handed her a glass of champagne.

  Her auburn hair was loose at her shoulders, shiny in the firelight, more red than brown in that light.

  “Champagne?” she asked, lifting questioning eyes to his.

  “It seemed appropriate for such a special occasion,” Michael said.

  “What occasion is that?”

  In answer, he touched his glass to hers and made a toast. “To a new beginning. To fighting back—Phase One.”

  “To Phase One,” she declared with a brave smile, and took a sip of champagne. “What was Phase Two again?”

  “That’s the getting-even phase.”

  She didn’t ask for the details of Phase Two, and he was glad, because she wasn’t ready to hear them, let alone put them into practice.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  Michael looked at the luminous eyes that had mesmerized him fourteen years ago, and he watched her reach up and comb her heavy hair off her forehead with her fingers. He remembered the gesture as clearly as he remembered that in bright daylight her eyes were aquamarine, but in other light—like now—they turned the deep blue-green of zircons. He remembered the attentive way she listened, with her head tipped slightly to the side, as it was now. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he remembered the way she looked a month ago, coming toward him in that little red dress—leggy and sophisticated and gracious. “What is it that you’ve been thinking about?”