by Nora Roberts
“It’ll be fine,” he told her.
* * *
SETH got his first real taste of Dru’s previous life minutes after they entered the ballroom.
Groups of people mixed and mingled to the muted background music of a twelve-piece orchestra. The decor was a patriotic red, white and blue echoed in flowers, table linens, balloons and bunting.
A huge ice sculpture of the American flag had been carved as if it were waving in a breeze.
There was a great deal of white on the female guests as well, which took its form in diamonds and pearls. Dress was conservative, traditional and very, very rich.
Part political rally, he supposed. Part social event, part gossip mill.
He’d do it in acrylics, he thought. All sharp colors and shapes with bright crystal light.
“Drusilla.” Katherine swept up, resplendent in military blue. “Don’t you look lovely? But I thought we said you’d wear the white Valentino.” She kissed Dru’s cheek and, with an indulgent tsk-tsk, brushed her fingers over Dru’s hair.
“And Seth.” She held out a hand to him. “How wonderful to see you again. I was afraid you must be stuck in traffic. I was so hoping you and Dru would come stay with us for the weekend so you wouldn’t have that terrible drive.”
It was the first he’d heard of it, but he rose to the occasion. “I appreciate the invitation, but I couldn’t get away. I hope you’ll forgive me and save me a dance. That way I’ll be able to say I danced with the two most beautiful women in the room.”
“Aren’t you charming?” She pinked up prettily. “And you can be certain I’ll do just that. Come now, I must introduce you. So many people are looking forward to meeting you.”
Before she could turn, Drusilla’s father strode up. He was a striking man with silver-streaked black hair and hooded eyes of dense brown. “There’s my princess.” He caught Dru in a fierce and possessive embrace. “You’re so late, you had me worried.”
“We’re not late.”
“For heaven’s sake, let the girl breathe,” Katherine demanded, and tugged at Proctor’s arm.
In an instant, Seth had the image of Witless trying to wedge his way in between Anna and anyone who tried to hug her when he was nearby.
“Proctor, this is Drusilla’s escort, Seth Quinn.”
“Good to meet you. Finally.” Proctor took Seth’s hand in a firm grip. Those dark eyes focused on Seth’s face. Studied.
“It’s good to meet you.” Just when Seth began to wonder if he was about to be challenged to Indian-wrestle, Proctor released his hand.
“It’s a pity you couldn’t make time to come down for the weekend.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.”
“Dad, it’s not Seth’s fault. I told you—both of you—that I couldn’t manage it. If I—”
“Dru’s shop is terrific, isn’t it?” Seth interrupted, his tone cheerful as he took champagne from a tray offered by a waiter, passed flutes to Katherine, to Dru, to Proctor before taking one for himself. “I’m sure the business aspects are complicated and challenging, but I’m speaking aesthetically. The use of space and light, the evolving blend of color and texture. One artist’s eye admiring another,” he said easily. “You must be incredibly proud of her.”
“Of course we are.” Proctor’s smile was sharp, lethally so. She’s my girl, it said as clearly as Katherine’s tugging had done. “Drusilla is our most cherished treasure.”
“How could she be anything but?” Seth replied.
“There’s Granddad, Seth.” Dru reached down, gripped Seth’s hand. “I really should introduce you.”
“Sure.” He shot a beaming smile at her parents. “Excuse us a minute.”
“You’re very good at this,” Dru told him.
“The tact and diplomacy department. Probably get that from Phil. You might’ve mentioned the weekend invite.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I should have. I thought I was saving us both, and instead I put you in the hot seat.”
They were stopped a half dozen times on the way to the table where Senator Whitcomb was holding court. Each time, Dru exchanged a light kiss or handshake, made introductions, then eased away.
“You’re good at it, too,” Seth commented.
“Bred in the bone. Hello, Granddad.” She bent down to kiss the handsome, solidly built man.
He had a rough and cagey look about him, Seth thought. Like a boxer who dominated in the ring as much with wit as with muscle. His hair was a dense pewter, and his eyes the same brilliant green as his granddaughter’s.
He got to his feet to catch her face in two big hands. His smile was magnetic. “Here’s my best girl.”
“You say that to all your granddaughters.”
“And I mean it, every time. Where’s that painter your mother’s been burning my ears about? This one here.” Keeping one hand on Dru’s shoulder, he sized Seth up. “Well, you don’t look like an idiot, boy.”
“I try not to be.”
“Granddad.”
“Quiet. You got sense enough to be making time with this pretty thing?”
Seth grinned. “Yes, sir.”
“Senator Whitcomb, Seth Quinn. Don’t embarrass me, Granddad.”
“It’s an old man’s privilege to embarrass his granddaughters. I like your work well enough,” he said to Seth.
“Thank you, Senator. I like yours well enough, too.”
Whitcomb’s lips pursed for a moment, then curved up. “Seems to have a backbone. We’ll see about this. My sources tell me you’re making a decent living off your painting.”
“Quiet,” Seth told Dru when she opened her mouth. “I’m lucky to be able to make a living doing something I love. As your record indicates you’re a strong patron of the arts, you obviously understand and appreciate art for art’s sake. Financial rewards are secondary.”
“Build boats, too, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. When I can. My brothers are the finest designers and builders of wooden sailing vessels in the East. If you visit Saint Chris again, you should come by and see for yourself.”
“I might just do that. Your grandfather was a teacher. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Seth said evenly. “He was.”
“The most honorable of professions. I met him once at a political rally at the college. He was an interesting and exceptional man. Adopted three sons, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you come from his daughter.”
“In a manner of speaking. I wasn’t fortunate enough to have my grandfather for the whole of my life, as Dru’s been fortunate enough to have you. But his impact on me, his import to me, is every bit as deep. I hope he’d be half as proud of me as I am of him.”
Dru laid a hand on Seth’s arm, felt the tension. “If you’ve finished prying for the moment, I’d like to dance. Seth?”
“Sure. Excuse me, Senator.”
“I’m sorry.” Dru turned into Seth’s arms on the dance floor. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I am. It’s his nature to demand answers, however personal.”
“He didn’t seem to want to roast me over an open fire, like your father.”
“No. He’s not as possessive, and he’s more open to letting me make my own decisions, trust my own instincts.”
“I liked him.” That, Seth thought, was part of the problem. He’d seen a shrewd and intelligent man who loved his grandchild, and expected the best for her. Who obviously concluded that she’d expect the best for herself.
And the best was unlikely to be a stray with a father he’d never met and a mother with a fondness for blackmail.
“He’s usually more subtle than that,” she said. “And more reasonable. The situation with Jonah infuriated him. Now, I suppose, he’ll be overprotective where I’m
concerned for a while. Why don’t we just go?”
“Running away doesn’t work. Believe me, I’ve tried it.”
“You’re right, and that’s very annoying.”
She eased back when the music stopped, and saw Jonah over his shoulder. “If it’s not one thing,” she said quietly, “it’s two more. How’s your tact and diplomacy holding up?”
“So far, so good.”
“Lend me some,” she said, then let her lips curve into a cool and aloof smile.
“Hello, Jonah. And Angela, isn’t it?”
“Dru.” Jonah started to lean in, as if to kiss her cheek. He stopped short at the warning that flickered in her eyes, but his transition to a polite handshake was silky smooth. “You look wonderful, as always. Jonah Stuben,” he said to Seth and offered a hand.
“Quinn, Seth Quinn.”
“Yes, the artist. I’ve heard of you. My fiancée, Angela Downey.”
“Congratulations.” Well aware dozens of eyes were on her, Dru kept her expression bland. “And best wishes,” she said to Angela.
“Thank you.” Angela kept her hand tucked tight through Jonah’s arm. “I saw two of your paintings at a showing of contemporary artists at the Smithsonian last year. One seemed a very personal study in oil, with an old white house, shady trees, people gathered around a big picnic table, and dogs in the yard. It was lovely, and so serene.”
“Thanks.” Home, Seth thought. One he’d done from memory and his rep had shipped back for the gallery.
“And how’s your little business, Dru?” Jonah asked her. “And life in the slow lane?”
“Both are very rewarding. I’m enjoying living and working among people who don’t slide into pretense every morning along with their wing tips.”
“Really?” Jonah’s smile went edgy. “I got the impression from your parents that you were moving back shortly.”
“You’re mistaken. And so are they. Seth, I’d love a little fresh air.”
“Fine. Oh, Jonah, I want to thank you for being such a complete asshole.” Seth smiled cheerfully at Angela. “I hope you’re very happy together.”
“That was neither tactful nor diplomatic,” Dru admonished.
“I guess I get the calling an asshole an asshole from Cam. The restraint for not busting his balls for calling your shop ‘your little business’ is probably Ethan’s influence. Want to go out on the terrace?”
“Yes. But . . . give me a minute, will you? I’d like to go out alone, settle down. Then we can make the rest of the rounds and get the hell out of here.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He watched her go, but before he could find someplace to hide, Katherine swooped down on him.
Outside, Dru took two steadying breaths, then a sip from the champagne she’d taken before stepping onto the terrace.
This town, she thought, looking out at the lights and the landmarks, smothered her. Was it any wonder she’d bolted to a place where the air was clear?
She wanted to sit on her porch, to feel that quiet satisfaction after a long day’s work. She wanted to know Seth was beside her, or would be.
How strange it was that she could see that image so clearly, could see it spinning on, day after day. Year after year. And she could barely make out the shape and texture of the life she’d led before. All she knew was the weight of it at moments like this.
“Drusilla?”
She glanced over her shoulder, managed to suppress the sigh—and the oath—when Angela stepped up to her. “Let’s not pretend we have something to say to each other, Angela. We played for the crowd.”
“I have something to say to you. Something I’ve wanted to say for a long time. I owe you an apology.”
Dru lifted an eyebrow. “For?”
“This isn’t easy for me. I was jealous of you. I resented you for having what I wanted. And I used that to justify sleeping with the man you were going to marry. I loved him, I wanted him, so I took what was available.”
“And now you have him.” Dru lifted a hand, palm up. “Problem solved.”
“I didn’t like being the other woman. Sneaking around, taking whatever scraps he had left over. I convinced myself it was your fault, that was the only way I could live with it. All I had to do was get you out of the way and Jonah and I could be together.”
“You did do it on purpose.” Dru turned, leaned back against the railing. “I wondered.”
“Yes, I did it on purpose. It was impulse, and one I’ve regretted even though . . . well, even though. You didn’t deserve to find out that way. You hadn’t done anything. You were the injured party, and I played a large role in hurting you. I’m very sorry for it.”
“Are you apologizing because your conscience is bothering you, Angela, or because it’ll tidy up the path before you marry Jonah?”
“Both.”
Honesty at least, Dru thought, she could respect. “All right, you’re absolved. Go forth and sin no more. He wouldn’t have had the guts to apologize, to come to me this way, face-to-face, and admit he was wrong. Why are you with someone like that?”
“I love him,” Angela said simply. “Strong points, weak points, the whole package.”
“Yes, I think you do. Good luck. Sincerely.”
“Thank you.” She started back in, then stopped. “Jonah’s never looked at me the way I saw Seth Quinn look at you. I don’t think he ever will. Some of us settle for what we can get.”
And some of us, Dru realized, get more than we ever knew we wanted.
* * *
HE was worn out when they got back to Dru’s. From the drive, from the tension, from the thoughts circling like vultures in his mind.
“I owe you big.”
He turned his head, stared at her blankly. “What?”
“I owe you for tolerating everything. My grandfather’s interrogation, my ex-fiancé’s smugness, my mother’s prancing you around for over an hour like you were a prize stallion at a horse show, for all the questions, the intimations, the speculations. You had to run the gauntlet.”
“Yeah, well.” He jerked his shoulders, shoved open the car door. “You warned me.”
“My father was rude, several times.”
“Not especially. He just doesn’t like me.” Hands in his pockets, Seth walked with her toward the front door. “I get the impression he’s not going to like any guy, particularly, who touches his princess.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“Oh, sugar, when your family’s got themselves a couple of business and political empires, you’re a princess. You just don’t want to live in an ivory tower.”
“I’m not what they assume I am. I don’t want what they persist in believing I want. I’m never going to please them in the way they continually expect. This is my life now. Will you stay?”
“Tonight?”
“To start.”
He stepped inside with her. He didn’t know what to do with the despair, with the sudden, urgent fear that he was going to lose everything he’d tried so hard to hold on to.
He pulled her close, as if to prove he could hold on to this. And could hear the mocking laughter rising in his brain.
“I need . . .” He pressed his face into the curve of her neck. “Goddamn it. I need—”
“What?” Trying to soothe, she stroked her hands over his back. “What do you need?”
Too much, he thought. More, he was sure, than fate would ever let him have. But for now, for tonight, all needs could be one.
“You.” He spun her around, shoved her back against the door in a move as sharp and shocking as a whiplash. His mouth cut off her gasp of surprise in a kiss that burned toward the savage.
“I need you.” He stared down into her wide, stunned eyes. “I’m not going to treat you like a princess tonight.” He dragged her dress up to the wai
st, and his hand, rough and intimate, pressed between her legs. “You’re not going to want me to.”
“Seth.” She gripped his shoulders, too dazed to push him away.
“Tell me to stop.” He stabbed his fingers into her, drove up her hard and fast.
Panic, excitement, burst inside her with the darkest of pleasures. “No.” She let herself fly, vowed to take him with her. “No, we won’t stop.”
“I’ll take what I need.” He snapped one of the thin jeweled straps so the material slithered down to cling to the tip of her breast. “You may not be ready for what I need tonight.”
“I’m not fragile.” Her breath clogged in her throat. “I’m not weak.” Though she shuddered, her gaze stayed on his. “You might not be ready for what I need tonight.”
“We’re about to find out.” He whipped her around, pressed her against the door and fixed his teeth on the nape of her neck.
She cried out, her hands fisting against the door as his raced over her.
They had loved urgently, with great tenderness, even with laughter. But she’d never known the kind of desperation he showed her now. A desperation that was ruthless, reckless and rough. She hadn’t known she could revel in it, could feel that same whippy violence herself. Or that she could rejoice in the snapping of her own control.
He assaulted her senses, and left her writhing on the wreckage.
He yanked the second strap, broke the elegant jeweled length in half so the dress slid down into a red puddle on the floor.
She wore a strapless bra and a garter of champagne lace, sheer, sheer hose and high silver heels. When he turned her, looked at her, his fingers dug into her shoulders.
She was quivering now, her skin flushed and damp. And that power, that knowledge were in her eyes. “Take me to bed.”
“No.” He molded her breasts. “I’m going to take you here.”
Then his hands were on her hips, lifting her up, bringing her to him. He ravaged her mouth while he took his hands on an impatient journey over lace and flesh and silk. While his blood pounded, he ran the same hot trail with his mouth.