by Brenda Joyce
And suddenly an image Annabel would never forget raced through her mind: numerous wedding guests, her father, Harold Talbot, and her sisters and their husbands all crowding outside the front door of their New York City home as she looked up from the lawn, on her hands and knees, making the most fateful decision of her life.
Had Lizzie seen Braxton? Had Lizzie recognized him? *
"You never get headaches," Lizzie said, taking her arm. But her gaze lifted to the sweeping staircase. Following her regard, Annabel saw Braxton from behind as he disappeared on the next landing.
Annabel threw her arm around Lizzie and whirled her away from the stairs, her heart lurching. "I am going up to my room to lie down," she said. To lie down, and to think.
“Your room is the other way," Lizzie pointed out. "Annabel, you are acting so very strangely!"
Lizzie had not recognized Braxton or she would have immediately commented upon it. She had only glimpsed him for a moment, and that from behind. Annabel realized the source of her panic, and could hardly believe herself. She was insane to care if Braxton was recognized and carted off to jail like the very thief that he was.
Annabel studied Lizzie. Even if Lizzie did encounter him directly, she might not recognize him. But there was no way of knowing, not until such an encounter actually took place. And Annabel shuddered at the thought.
And there was also Melissa and her husband and Adam to consider. Missy was very sharp, unlike her dim-witted husband, and Adam was also clever. Annabel was dismayed. Someone would recognize him, the odds told her that.
And she should be glad. She should even identify him herself. She could be the one to send him to prison. It would be her vengeance and his due. But instead, she was worried over his being discovered. It was preposterous.
"Annabel? You are miles away. Whatever is wrong?" Lizzie tugged on her hand, her dark eyes filled with worry.
"I am going upstairs to my room," Annabel said, forcing a smile. "I will be fine. I will see you all before supper." But she did not think she would be fine for a very long time—and certainly not for as long as Braxton remained on the same premises as she.
Lizzie nodded uncertainly. Then, before Annabel could leave, she plucked her sleeve. "Dear, I am so sorry about that boorish James Appleton Beard. He is hardly good enough for you anyway."
"I had forgotten all about him, to tell you the truth," Annabel said honestly, for her thoughts were consumed with Braxton now.
"I do think Mr. Frank is very set on you." Lizzie's tone was hopeful. "He seems so kind, Annabel."
Annabel blinked, finally focusing completely on her sister. "Liz, he is old, and kind or not, he is a bore."
Lizzie's face crumpled and she bit her lip. "You just won't give anyone a chance," she cried. "Sometimes I think you are pining for that thief—and waiting for him to reappear in our lives!"
Annabel could not believe her ears—or the utter irony of what Lizzie had just said. "I must go," she cried, kissing her sister's cheek. She paused. "And you are wrong, Lizzie, so very wrong. That is ancient history. Truly."
Lizzie regarded her sadly.
Annabel gripped her striped skirts and rushed up the stairs, her gait hardly ladylike or genteel. Lizzie was wrong. She did not continue to harbor misplaced affections for a man who had abandoned her two long years ago. On the other hand, she wasn't quite sure she wished
to condemn him to a life of imprisonment, either—and something was surely wrong with her for not wanting to see him in jail. Annabel glanced down the hall on the second landing. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she expected to see Braxton lurking about, lying in wait for her, eager to speak with her.
But the long, plushly carpeted hall was vacant, except for one uniformed housemaid with a cart of cleaning tools.
Annabel's room was on the fourth floor—the hotel had eight stories in all. She quickly let herself in and found herself locking the door. Then she unlaced and kicked off her kid shoes and flopped on her back on the bed.
Tears shamelessly filled her eyes.
Oh, God. Annabel flung one arm over her brow. It was impossible to believe that she still felt such anguish over that man and what he had done to her. She had been the one to seduce him. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that lovemaking could be the way it had been, or that afterward, he would abandon her, without even a good-bye.
Annabel wiped the tears from her eyes. Maybe Lizzie was right. There was a stubborn part of her heart that just refused to give up her love for Pierce St. Clare, aka Pierce Braxton. But how could that be? And how could she have fallen in love with an absolute stranger in less than twenty-four hours?
Poor, poor Annabel Boothe. With her wild, reckless ways.
Annabel wanted to clap her hands over her ears to drive away that too familiar refrain, but it was just like her suddenly to go off half-cocked, whether her passions were stimulated by a voyage to India or a con artist and a thief.
There was a knocking at her door.
Annabel sat up, her heart lurching with dread. Of course it was not Braxton. Undoubtedly it was Lizzie, bringing her a dinner tray, or Missy, come to scold her. Or it might even be a hotel maid. Annabel stood up slowly, wetting her lips. Her pulse pounded. She turned to glance at her reflection in the mirror over the Chippendale dresser.
Her pale hair was spilling out of its chignon, her high-necked gown was wrinkled, and her face was very pale. In contrast, her eyes were so blue that they almost seemed black. Annabel walked to the door in her bare feet, unlocked it, and swung it open.
Braxton stared at her.
She had known it would be him. For one moment Annabel looked into his eyes, and then she hit him with all her might. The slap sounded loudly in the room and the hall outside her door.
Immediately Braxton stepped into her room, closing the door behind him. In the blink of an eye, he had locked it and pocketed the brass key. "Now that we have gotten that out of the way, hello, Annabel," he said.
She was trembling, with rage, she supposed. "Get out. Before I am ruined twice."
He continued to regard her very intently, but his eyes gave no clue as to his thoughts or feelings, and it was not at all like her dreams—she saw no sign of regret upon his features. "You have not changed," he said after a long moment.
"Have you?" she asked caustically.
"You are angry." He did not move. He stood against the door, inches away from her. "You wanted to be ruined, Annabel, or have you conveniently forgotten that?"
"I have not forgotten anything," Annabel flashed, clenching her fists. She had the wild, nearly uncontrollable urge to hit him again. While a crystal-clear memory of their lovemaking swept through her mind.
"Then why are you so angry? Because I left without a good-bye?" He studied her.
How to answer? Two long, painful years had gone by, and maybe Lizzie was right, maybe she had been pining for him, and God only knew how many more years might pass after this single encounter. Annabel said, "When a man makes love to a woman, at least a good-bye is in order."
"I am sorry," he said. "But a good-bye was not wise. For many reasons."
She folded her arms tightly across her breasts. "But then, you did not make love to me, did you, Braxton? Naive idiot that I am, virgin that I was, I mistook your passion for some amount of feeling, of caring. So a good-bye was not in order, now was it?" Her eyes felt hot. She would kill herself if she cried now, in front of him.
He tossed the key onto her bed and walked past her to the window. Appropriately, her view was of the back lawns and the Acadia's three tennis courts. Beyond that, one could see the other side of the inlet, a peninsula of black rock and green pines sticking out into the Atlantic Ocean. "I am sorry." He did not face her. "I never meant to hurt you. I did what I thought was best."
"I do not believe you. I do not think you are a repentant man. Not in any circumstance," Annabel flared. "And you did what was best for you."
He turned slowly and
their gazes locked. Annabel almost fell over because she saw regret now, and it was vast—and identical to the expression he had worn in all of her fantasies. "It was not easy for me," he said quietly. "You see, you were not as naive as you think you were. I was very fond of you, Annabel. And I am a good judge of human nature. I had already summed you up— and knew you would impulsively seek to join me in my adventures. I did what was best for us both, Annabel."
"Don't you dare claim that you know me," she retorted, but she was shaken anew. He was right—she would have insisted upon accompanying him instead of returning home. But more importantly, had he meant what he had just said? Had he been fond of her then? She had no intention of ever trusting him again. If he had cared at all for her, how could he have abandoned her the way he had? And what about now—what about the present?
Annabel wet her lips. "How arrogant, how presumptuous, to make my choice for me."
"You are not the first to accuse me of arrogance," he said with a wry smile.
Annabel trembled. It did not seem like two years since she had last been with him, damn it. It seemed more like two days or two weeks. She did not want him standing there in her room, just a few feet away from her, with that smile and those eyes and his damn charisma. "I make my own decisions," she said. #
"Few women, especially unwed ones, make their own decisions," he returned evenly. His gaze had slipped to her left hand, which was bare of rings. "Is your father here?" he asked abruptly.
Her cheeks felt hot. Foolishly, Annabel hid her hand in her skirts. "So that is why you have come," she said, unable to disguise her bitterness. "No."
His jaw flexed as he stepped forward. "I do not wish to go to jail," he said. "And that is only one reason I have come."
She was aware of him coming even closer. Annabel hoped he would not see how she was trembling. She tilted up her chin. "You want to know if your secret is safe with me."
He smiled. Annabel could hardly stand it. She backed away from him until her shoulders hit the door. "Actually, I already know that my secret is safe with you," he murmured.
"Even I know no such thing," she huffed.
"If you were going to finger me, my dear, you would have done so forty-five minutes ago." He continued to smile. But his gaze had dropped to her mouth.
"I hate you," she heard herself hiss. But she was thinking about his kisses. She had stopped remembering them long ago. She did not want to remember them now—or to despair because she would never be in his arms again.
"I don't blame you. I should have refused what you offered. I did try. But I admit, I did not try very much, Annabel. I do not think you have any idea of how unusual a woman you are. Few men could be strong enough to resist you if you set your cap for them."
He was thoroughly wrong, no man wanted her, but his words affected her so much that she pounced on the bed, grabbed the key, rushed to the door and began to unlock it. "I want you to leave. Now." He had been sincere and she was certain of it.
His hand caught hers, covering it, stopping her from opening the door. And their gazes connected wildly once again. "You haven't changed, and I am glad," he said, smiling slightly. "You are still bold and courageous, and more beautiful than ever." His smile was gone. "I would hate to see you subdued by society and men like your father."
His words thrilled her, but she did not want to be thrilled, and they also frightened her. She said, "No one, not ever! you, could ever subdue me, Braxton."
He was silent. A tension fell that was thick and heavy, and with it an absolute silence, in which only their breathing could be heard. "Is that a challenge, my dear?" he finally asked.
Annabel stopped breathing. Her heart drummed against her chest. "No."
He laughed. The sound was as rich as his voice, as tempting, as infuriating. "I think that was a struggle, Annabel."
"I hate you," she cried, slamming her fist into his chest. "Now get out—and don't you dare come near me again!"
His laughter died. He caught her right wrist immediately, the action reflexive. And suddenly Annabel fell fully against him—and she was practically in his arms.
She became acutely aware of her hand in his, his fingers on her wrist, and his long, hard body pressing up against hers. She looked up. He had also became motionless. Their gazes locked.
Annabel knew he was going to kiss her. She forgot the past. Expectation—anticipation—engulfed her.
"I knew," he said suddenly, his tone low, his words slow, "that if I said good-bye, you would convince me to take you with me. That I would not be strong enough to resist you."
Annabel felt her gaze widen.
He still held her hand. But now he was clasping it. "I did not want to be responsible for ruining your life. You deserve far more than a life on the lam. You had your entire life in front of you, with so many possibilities. I did not want to take any of those opportunities away."
Annabel was stunned.
His reached up and touched her cheek with two fingers, a brief caress that sent shivers coursing over every inch of Annabel's body, followed by an intense longing— a yearning that had never completely died. "I honestly did not think I would ever see you again," he said, and his expression was twisted and odd. "I think I had better go."
Annabel was stunned by the entire encounter, but one coherent thought was clear in her mind—-she did not want him to go, not so soon, not yet. It had been so long since they had been together, even just to converse with one another.
But she had pride, and never had she been more confused in her entire life. She watched him crack open the door. "The hall is clear," he said, pausing—as if he did
not want to leave quite yet, either. His regard was so direct it was unsettling.
She found her sanity and her voice. "Then go." She swallowed. "Pierce. My sisters and brothers-in-law are here, as well."
He stared. And smiled, with his eyes. "Thank you for the warning," he said.
Annabel could not find an appropriate response.
His gaze held hers for another moment before he slipped from the room.
She stood in the doorway, staring after him, long after he had disappeared. Tears were falling from her eyes.
Chapter Seven
Pierce regarded the rain.
The downpour continued, unabated. It was accompanied by a heavy fog, making it almost impossible to see more than a dozen feet in any direction. Pierce did not see, not the rain, not the blanket of mist, nor the few evergreens poking through pockets of it. He only saw Annabel, barefoot and disheveled, and in spite of her courage, obviously so damn vulnerable.
How perverse life was.
He had not lied when he had told her that he had not thought to ever see her again. He was dismayed. He had not wished for their paths to ever cross again. Yet he was also elated, peculiarly so, and there was no denying it.'" .
His pulse continued to pound.
He sighed, turning away from the window, clad only in his shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled casually up. His single leather trunk, large enough to contain an average-sized man, lay on the floor. His single valise lay on the bed. His jaw set, he went to the black trunk and began removing his clothing from it. He had a job to do.
Which was why he could not leave. And it had nothing to do with Annabel Boothe, but everything to do with the Countess Rossini.
Annabel entered the salon where the guests mingled before supper. It was a large room with gleaming oak floors and Persian rugs, and two brass gaslight chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, which was painted moss green. The walls were papered in a tree-of-life print, and most of the furnishings were yellow or green. Her heart was racing far too wildly to be ignored. Annabel paused on the threshold, glancing around. Numerous guests were present, including her sisters and their husbands, the women in lavish evening gowns, the men in black dinner jackets. But Braxton had not come. She had known he would not, anyway, for it was far too dangerous. But her heart sank like a stone, filled with undeniable dismay.
She saw several men staring, including James Apple-ton Beard and the elderly Mr. Frank. Annabel sighed, moving toward her family without looking at anyone else. As she passed a group of guests, she heard someone say, "Can you believe that is her?" in shock and incredulity, as if such elegance and beauty were an impossibility for herself.
"Annabel!" Lizzie cried, beaming. "I have never seen that gown before! How wonderful you look!" Lizzie was holding the hand of her two-year-old soil, Evan.
"That is because I have never worn it." Annabel bent to tousle Evan's dark hair and kiss his plump cheek. "Hi, sweetie. How was your supper?"
He stuck his thumb in his mouth and smiled at her. "Goo'," he said.
His nanny stepped forward. "We were waiting for you, Miss Boothe. It is time for Master Evan to say good-night."
Annabel bent and hugged him, holding him against her chest for a moment. "Sweet, sweet dreams, Evan. I will play with you in the morning, I promise." She smiled at him.
"Play ten?" he asked, taking his nursemaid's hand.
"Yes, we shall play tennis, weather permitting." Annabel grinned.
Evan was led away. For one moment Annabel watched him, not hearing Melissa making a comment on how odd it was to teach a two-year old to play tennis before he could even spell his ABC's. And then she froze. Standing not far from the doorway, watching her intently, was none other than Pierce St. Clare.