Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams

by Christina Skye

  “I’m not surprised to hear it. We had a visitor today, too. An unexpected visitor,” Dominic said flatly. “And that letter you wrote to Cathlin has disappeared. How long do we have until the newspapers get hold of this, Nicholas?”

  “Who knows? I’ll do what I can. I still have a few friends on Fleet Street I can trust. But I think you’d better get Cathlin down here now, so you start fulfilling that week of residence. Meanwhile, Kacey and I have begun looking into the documents here, trying to track down anything about the elusive Gabriel Montserrat. So far, no luck, however.”

  “Ditto here. The whole thing’s damned strange. Cathlin’s attitude isn’t going to help either.”

  “Attitude?”

  “She hates anything to do with the work that killed her father. And unfortunately, that means me.”

  “You’ll bring her around,” Nicholas said confidently. “You always do.”

  Maybe not this time, Dominic thought. And maybe this was the only time that really counted.

  “Dominic, are you still there?”

  “Right here, Nicholas. By the way, there’s nothing you aren’t telling me, is there? No other crazy stipulations that Gabriel put on this bequest.”

  There was a tiny pause. “What makes you ask that?”

  “You haven’t answered me, Nicholas.”

  His friend cleared his throat. “Look, I’ve got to go. Kacey’s just come in with Genevieve. I’ll talk to you when you get here, Dominic. And make it soon.”

  SHE’D BLOODY SHOW DOMINIC Montserrat, Cathlin thought.

  She would be pampered, perfect, and beautiful when she left this room. And just let him try to stop her from conducting her business. Serita had friends, after all, friends in the very highest places. They would dispose of a nasty little insect named Dominic Montserrat in a second.

  Frowning, Cathlin dumped a packet of expensive French bath powder into the big old tub and turned the faucets on high, letting the fragrance rise in rich clouds around her.

  Angrily, she settled into a froth of bubbles and forced her mind to business, something she’d woefully forgotten in the last twenty-four hours since Dominic had come charging into her well-ordered life. Cathlin sat back and began a mental tally of her current inventory against the desires—and ruthless dictates—of her well-heeled clients.

  No Sauternes for Alexandra, the banker’s wife. Her third husband had recently absconded to parts unknown, taking the family diamonds along with him. And since he had adored Sauternes, now she couldn’t abide the sight of them.

  Next was her German diplomat. No more vintage champagne there. Poor Herr Schmidt had recently been involved in a scandal with a hot-blooded but underaged heir to a French champagne dynasty. As a result, he’d had to pay a cool two million to buy his way out of the nasty legal proceedings the family threatened him with. Yes, only fine robust burgundies for Herr Schmidt from now on. Cathlin decided that an elegant Clos St. Denis 1969, silky and rich with fruit, would make a perfect offering for the fastidious Herr Schmidt.

  That left only the Château Lafite. A very upscale restauranteur in Brighton had been pestering her for a new shipment of first growth burgundy. After lunch she’d place a call and see if Marcel still wanted—

  Abruptly, all thought stopped as Cathlin watched the bathroom door inch open. Maybe it was the intruder. Or maybe it was—

  Dominic eased into the room, silent and cool. Only his glittering eyes showed his fury. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Cathlin made a lunge for a towel, missed, then sank low into the now-churning water. “It’s bloody obvious, I should think. Get out!”

  A muscle flashed at his jaw. “I didn’t know where you were. I called a dozen times, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Next time I’ll post a schedule.” Cathlin slid lower, bubbles frothing around her. “I’m fine, as you can see. So now you can get out.”

  But Dominic merely angled one broad shoulder against the doorframe. He was naked from the waist up, his bronze chest dusted with dark hair. Cathlin felt her cheeks flame as he studied her from the end of her toes emerging from a froth of bubbles to the damp black hair curling at her neck. “I got worried when you didn’t answer. Didn’t you hear me calling?”

  “No. Now are you satisfied?” Foam sloshed across Cathlin’s shoulder, skimming the curve of one breast.

  “Not in the least.”

  Cathlin felt her face burn.

  Dominic said a raw word and grabbed the towel hanging over the edge of the door. “Get dressed, damn it. I need your help. I’ve found something up in the attic.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.” The towel flew toward her and landed in the scented foam with a soft hiss.

  Cathlin lurched up, bubbles sculpting her breasts and thighs as she dived to rescue the now sodden towel.

  Dominic’s gaze followed her every inch of the way.

  “Get out!” Cathlin stormed, her cheeks crimson, the wet towel clamped protectively to her chest and thighs. “Unless you want a broken neck to go along with those bruises on your head!”

  “It might just be worth it,” he said softly. His eyes flowed over the towel. Her every wet curve lay molded in its damp, seductive drape. Then his gaze moved lower, to the creamy legs that ran up to—

  Dominic bit back a curse and turned away. “Hurry up. Unless you want me to come in after you and bleed on all those nice bubbles.”

  Somewhere down the hall the phone began an incessant clamor.

  “Damned bloody phone.” Jamming his hands into his pockets, Dominic strode off, muttering a stream of curses that left Cathlin red-faced. But worst of all was the way her heart was slamming as she clutched the damp, entirely useless towel to her chest.

  Because even though she wanted to hate him, even though she was struggling desperately hard, she still wasn’t able to manage it.

  DOMINIC SLAMMED DOWN THE phone. Wrong bloody number. It didn’t help that his head was pounding and his shoulder ached from crawling around that bloody attic searching for her cameo.

  Then, when Cathlin hadn’t answered—

  He frowned, not wanting to remember the fear that had kicked in at her silence. He’d plunged up the stairs, head down and shoulders low, in a textbook stance as he braced for a concealed attacker. Even now, his nerves were screaming, and he was riding a wave of adrenaline. He’d crouched just outside her door, then reached for his shoulder, just at the spot where a revolver would have been holstered.

  Only there was no gun. Dominic had sworn there’d never be a gun there again.

  But here he was, making all the old moves. And there had been no one better at those moves than Dominic Montserrat.

  Right up to that day in Rome when four kidnappers had moved in on the car where Dominic was escorting the twin children of one of the queen’s lesser-known cousins to a horse show. Dominic had shoved the towheaded eight-year-olds behind him and dropped to one knee, then squeezed off six quick shots.

  It had all happened before he’d known it.

  When he’d turned the bodies over, he’d discovered that three of the men were still in their teens. And the fourth “man” was really a girl of barely sixteen.

  He’d gotten through the rest of the tour, then gone back home and fallen apart. He’d gotten stinking drunk and stayed that way for nearly a week.

  After that he’d turned in his resignation. And he’d never worn a gun again, nor wanted to.

  Until now.

  He jabbed shaky fingers through his hair, sick at the old memories. Outside the window, wind shook the trees that bordered the tidal plain. Seacliffe was a desolate place, but it had its own kind of beauty. It was a place where a man could find himself. A place whose solitude forced a man to face his private demons.

  The only question was if the man liked what he saw.

  Dominic was wondering how he’d gotten pulled into this mess when he caught the faint scent of flowers behind him. Something subtle. Lilacs,
he decided.

  And then she was behind him, fast and utterly furious. “Let’s get one thing straight right now, Macho Man.” Cathlin poked his chest and the cold, wet towel, newly rescued from her bubble bath, slapped him in the face.

  “Nice aim, Irish. Almost as nice as those long legs of yours. But come to think of it, I prefer the sight of your high, full—”

  “I don’t care what you like!”

  His hands rose in surrender. “I’m all ears. Well maybe not all ears. I’m a flesh and blood male, after all. There are some parts that are—”

  “Shut up!”

  Dominic complied, crossing his arms and watching more of that damnably enchanting color sweep Cathlin’s cheeks. It left him thinking about what it would take to make her blush like that again.

  In soft, hidden places.

  Places he’d graze and stroke until—

  Forget it, Montserrat. It’s all business now, remember? “Whatever you say, Cathlin. I put myself entirely into your hands.”

  Again the color, rising through her cheeks. “If you did that, you’d be sorry, because right now I’d consider it a great pleasure to snap several bones into neat little pieces. And that’s just for starters.”

  His eyebrow rose. “Sounds painful.”

  “Blast it, you—”

  His eyes slid over her robed body. “Hadn’t you better get ready? You’re seeing your debonair friend in an hour.”

  Cathlin tossed the wet towel right in his face. “You’re right, I am. And I’m going alone. And that’s one order you’re not going to worm your way around, Officer Montserrat.”

  WHEN CATHLIN WALKED OUT the front door, she was tugging on a jacket of Harris tweed. Dominic noticed how the smoky golden plaid brought out the turbulence in her eyes. He also noticed the pallor in her face and the set to her jaw. Attitude.

  “Let’s go,” he said curtly.

  “This is business. You’re not coming.”

  “From now on, where you go, I go, O’Neill.”

  “What gives you the right to interfere?”

  “Interfering is my job,” Dominic growled. It was only too true. Interfering was the heart of close protection, because protecting someone meant being unpleasant. It meant pointing out problems. It meant being nosy and curious and meddlesome while you were busy suspecting anyone and everyone.

  And Dominic had been damned good at that part of his job. Before it had nearly eaten a hole through his soul, that is.

  “Your job? You mean along with repairing roofs?”

  “Taking care of a woman has always been a man’s job.”

  She pushed past him. “Maybe this woman doesn’t need protecting.”

  “Too bloody bad.” Dominic strode after her. “You’re forgetting something else, Irish. Half of that money is mine, and I need you to get it.”

  Cathlin swept her hair from her face and called back over her shoulder. “I’m loading Richard’s wine. If you’re not in the car when I get back, I leave without you.”

  Dominic watched her stride off toward the Jeep. Until he had something more concrete, he was going to keep Cathlin O’Neill close. It was only logical, given the amount of money involved in Gabriel Ashton’s will.

  Good try, Dominic thought. But we both know that it’s already gone a whole lot further than the money.

  CATHLIN HAD JUST SHOVED the last case of wine into the back of her Jeep when Dominic strode down the drive. His long legs ate up the distance, and his casual elegance in an old leather jacket gave him the look of a movie star traveling light. Mirrored aviator sunglasses gleamed silver beneath his wild, dark hair.

  Cathlin barely allowed him time to sit down before slamming the car into gear and roaring down the drive.

  “Tell me about Severance.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. He tried something once, but I wasn’t interested. Now it’s strictly business.”

  “Let’s hope he knows that.”

  “Oh, he does. We have an understanding, Richard and I. I understand that he’s an irresponsible, arrogant jerk, but I need his business. He understands that if he tries anything out of line, he’s going to lose a few teeth.”

  Dominic laughed. “Very well, enough about Severance. Tell me about this wine you’re taking to him. No doubt it’s going to cost him a lot.”

  “A shocking amount.” Cathlin smiled faintly. “The case comes from Bordeaux.”

  “I believe I’ve heard of it,” Dominic said dryly. “I’ve also heard that half the Bordeaux vintages are worth little more than the bottles they’re housed in.” It wasn’t quite true, but Dominic wanted to hear her talk, even if it was only to refute him.

  “Sometimes they’re overvalued. In 1972 an exceptionally poor vintage was foisted on the world at record prices. Buying a name-brand château that year was a major mistake. It’s a question of land and continuity, you see.”

  Dominic sat back and listened to Cathlin slide into her subject. She thought she was being boring and obnoxious, but Dominic was intrigued by her passionate knowledge of all things related to wine.

  “The old houses, or châteaux, usually have the best soil and ideal growing conditions. Because of that, over a long period of time their wines will be consistently better than any others.”

  The lady was good, all right. It seemed that anything she didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. But her concern spread beyond crop yields and pesticides and harvesting schedules. Clearly Cathlin O’Neill had a heart for wine and a love for the land. Both came through even in this bland description of vintage controversies and vineyard soil conditions.

  Dominic sat back and let her deluge him with facts and figures. As she described the fields of Bordeaux, he pictured green vines climbing over a rolling hillside. He saw the low mists that clung to the valleys, shielding the grapes until they reached perfect maturity.

  Yes, Cathlin O’Neill was damned good. And she was good because it came from her heart, not her head, which was where too many well-heeled vintners and arrogant wine connoisseurs failed. Dominic had learned all this from his French mother.

  Danielle Montserrat had taught him that a very fine wine should not be coddled, worshiped, or bartered as a simple commodity. Wine, she had always insisted, should be treated like a fine old friend. It should be savored and appreciated, enjoyed in the heat of a fine summer afternoon and in the last cool slide of velvet evening.

  Dominic had always made that his credo at La Trouvaille. He wanted to create wines that were rich but subtle, with a power and elegance that lingered. And apparently he’d succeeded. Cathlin herself had pronounced La Trouvaille a success. He didn’t suppose it was because of trends either. Cathlin O’Neill would never be a slave to fads. She would judge a Château Lafite with the same honesty that she accorded the most anonymous French vin de pays.

  And a part of Dominic Monsterrat honored her for her cussed independence. That kind of stubbornness had no doubt created any number of problems for her, given the conservatism of the wine world. But she’d survived.

  Dominic knew he could learn a great deal from that kind of tenacity.

  As they drove on through bars of golden sunlight and a haze of bright spring wildflowers, Dominic found himself wishing he didn’t know her name or her past or anything about her. Then he could simply pull her into his arms and kiss her the way his hardening body urged him to do.

  But that was impossible.

  She was business and nothing else, right up until the will was honored. Somehow he was going to have to remember that.

  An hour later they turned up an oak-fringed drive that overlooked the sea. A pink granite palace squatted at the top of the hill, its banks of modern windows ablaze in the setting sun. The beautifully manicured lawns were marred by two tennis courts and a garish black flagstone swimming pool.

  Money, Dominic thought. Lots of it. Money that was screaming to be seen. “Remind me not to look up this guy’s decorator.”

  Dominic saw Cathlin frown and run her hand ab
sently over her neck, as if it ached.

  A uniformed guard met them just beside the gatehouse. Obviously, Mr. Millionaire didn’t like to have his privacy threatened.

  “Name?” the guard said, trying to eye Cathlin’s legs.

  Dominic had to restrain the urge to give him a savage right uppercut.

  “Cathlin O’Neill to see Mr. Severance.”

  “I’ll have to phone up to the house.” The man frowned, scanning Dominic. “Who’s he?”

  “My assistant,” Cathlin said silkily. “He’ll help me with the wine cases.”

  The guard shrugged, then turned away to his radio. A moment later he gestured over the trees. “Drive to the top of the hill. Park at the servants’ entrance,” he added maliciously.

  As the ornate wrought-iron gates slid open, Cathlin pulled in and started up the drive. “You stay in the Jeep. You’d never pass for a workman, not in that jacket and those glasses. Definitely not with that attitude.”

  “What’s wrong with my attitude?”

  “You’re too arrogant.”

  Dominic shrugged. “We bodyguards have an image to keep up after all.” Cathlin pulled into the parking area, but made no move to get out. “We’re here, O’Neill. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “I noticed.”

  “Then you’d better get going. Mr. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous isn’t going to like that pricey Bordeaux throwing phosphates from the heat.”

  Cathlin muttered and reached for the door.

  “Damn it, O’Neill.” Cursing softly, Dominic caught her cheeks in his hands and pulled her against him.

  God, but she fit his arms perfectly. And her scent…

  Slowly, he ran his hand through her silky cap of black hair. It danced against his fingers, warm and electric. Then he reached beneath and slid something around her neck.