by Nora Roberts
More like a business arrangement than a- what the hell was it, anyway? An assignation? He didn't care for the word. But he didn't suppose "romance" fit the situation either. Neither of them was the starry-eyed type. They wanted what they wanted. Better to be up front and systematic about it.
But it irritated him nonetheless.
They arrived at Waterford's airport on schedule. And it was there Darcy got her first taste of what a man who walked in wealth could command. Their luggage was whisked away, and they were guided through security with a great deal of "This way, Mr. Magee" and "I hope you enjoy your trip, Mr. Magee."
Remembering the hassles and glitches in her recent travel to Paris, Darcy reaffirmed her determination to travel first class or not to travel at all. But even her imagining of top drawer took a bump when Trevor led her out on the tarmac toward a sleek little plane.
"Is this yours?"
"The company's," he told her, taking her arm for the short trip up the steps. "I do a lot of traveling, so it's more convenient to have my own transportation."
She stepped inside and had to struggle not to gasp. "I bet it is."
The seats were done in rich navy leather and were sized generously. Crystal vases were tucked into silver holders on the cream-colored walls between the windows. Each held a dewy bouquet of fresh yellow rosebuds. Her feet sank into the carpet.
A uniformed flight attendant with a polite smile and flawless skin greeted her by name, then asked if she would care for a mimosa before takeoff.
Champagne for breakfast, she thought. Just imagine that. "That would be lovely, thank you."
"Coffee for me, Monica. Want a tour?" he asked Darcy.
"I would, yes." Hoping she wasn't gawking, Darcy set down her purse.
"Galley's through here."
She peeked in and saw that the efficient Monica already had coffee brewing and was popping the cork on a bottle of champagne. The small space seemed to use every inch resourcefully, and stainless-steel surfaces gleamed.
"Cockpit." Trevor gestured through the already open door. The man sitting at a panel of complicated-looking controls swiveled in his chair. "Ready when you are, Mr. Magee. Good morning, Miss Gallagher. You can look forward to a short but smooth flight into Heathrow."
"Thank you. Do you fly this plane all by yourself? With no copilot?"
"It's a one-man operation," he told her. "But I don't need a copilot when Mr. Magee's on board."
"Is that so? Do you fly, then, Trevor?"
"Occasionally. Give us ten minutes, Donald, then clear with the tower."
"Yes, sir."
"We have a lot of interests in Europe," Trevor began as he led Darcy back through the main cabin. "We use this equipment primarily for the short-range flights over here."
"And for the longer flights?"
"We have larger equipment." He opened a door. Inside was an office complete with what looked to be a trim antique desk, a computer console, a wall screen for viewing videos, and a bed. She caught a glimpse of the bath through a side door. Everything gleamed.
"All the creature comforts and the business ones as well."
"You do better with the second if you have the first. Celtic's relatively young at six years, but it's growing, and it's profitable."
"Ah, so the London business has to do with Celtic Records, then."
"For the most part, yes. If you need something and don't see it, just ask."
She turned back to him. "I see everything I need."
He lifted a hand to toy with the ends of her hair. "Good. Let's get started."
"Haven't we already?" she murmured as they walked back to their seats.
Darcy settled in, accepted the glinting flute holding her mimosa, and prepared to have the time of her life.
The pilot was a man of his word. The flight was short and smooth. As far as Darcy was concerned, she could have flown for hours and been thrilled. She'd made casual small talk until she'd realized Trevor was distracted. About his upcoming meetings, she imagined, and left him to his planning while she looked over the list of suggestions from his assistant.
God, yes, she wanted to see it. All of it. Hyde Park and Harrods, Buckingham Palace and Chelsea. She wanted to experience the wild traffic of the streets and the grand shade of the great parks.
The trip through Heathrow was hardly more complex than the airport at home. Money paves the way, she thought as they slid through customs. Still, she hadn't expected the car and driver he'd arranged for her to be a limo and a chauffeur. Words stuttered into her throat and were ruthlessly swallowed down again until she could smile up at Trevor easily.
"Are we dropping you at your meeting, then?"
"No, opposite directions. I'll see you this evening."
"Good luck with your work." She started to take the driver's offered hand, to slip into the limo as she'd practiced doing in her mind. Smoothly, gracefully, as if she'd done it all her life.
But Trevor took her arm, said her name, and had her looking back up at him, lips just curved.
Then she was yanked up on her toes, her hands clutching at his shoulders for balance, her mouth gloriously assaulted. The swift change of mood from coolheaded businessman to hot-blooded lover was so swift, so complete, so erotic.
Before the moan could slither from heart to throat to lips, he released her. After one smoldering look, he nodded in what might have been satisfaction.
"Enjoy your day," he told her, and left her standing, nearly swaying, beside the discreetly blank-eyed driver and the open limo door.
She managed to slide in. The fact was, her bones were so loose it felt as though she was pouring herself into the rarefied air inside the limo, scented with roses and leather.
It took every ounce of will to click herself back, to absorb and appreciate her first ride in a long, quiet car. She trailed her fingers along the seat. Butter-smooth and the color of storm clouds. Like his eyes just moments before, she thought.
The driver seemed to be a full block away behind the smoked-glass privacy screen. Determined to remember every detail, Darcy noted the television, the crystal glasses, the shimmer of lights along the roof, and the window in it. She relaxed to the romantic sweep of classical music already playing over the stereo. And as she started to stretch out her legs and purr, she finally spotted the slim box on the seat beside her.
It was wrapped in gold with a silver ribbon. She snatched at it, then, wincing, glanced toward the driver.
A woman of the world would hardly dive into a gift. She'd be so used to them as to nearly be bored.
Chuckling to herself, Darcy opened the small envelope.
Welcome to London. Trev.
"Doesn't miss a trick, does he?" Darcy said to herself. "Well, good for me." Assured that the driver wasn't paying attention, she picked at the tape with her fingernail. She didn't want to tear the paper. Wallowing in anticipation, she tucked both the ribbon and the gift wrap, carefully folded, into her purse, then took a breath, held it.
Opened the long velvet box.
"Oh, Mother of God." She yelped it, forgot about the driver, about sophistication. About everything but the outrageous sparkle currently dazzling her eyes.
Gaping, she held the bracelet up, letting the glinting stones stream down like water. It was slim, and might have been delicate if not for all those bold colors. Surely that was emerald and ruby and sapphire and all framed by diamonds as brilliant as the sun.
Never in her life had she touched anything so beautiful, so fine, so ridiculously expensive. She really shouldn't accept it. She'd only just try it on. See how it looked. How it felt.
It looked gorgeous and felt even better.
As she turned her wrist, watched it wink, felt that almost liquid slide of gold over her skin, she decided she'd rather cut off her hand than give the bracelet back.
Her conscience would just have to adjust.
She spent so much time admiring the bracelet she nearly missed the thrill of the drive through London.
What to see first, she wondered, what to do? It was all so much to squeeze into two short days. She would unpack her things quickly and dive straight in.
She began outlining her stops as she watched London sweep by. When the limo stopped in front of a dignified town house she frowned and searched for the hotel.
No, she remembered with a jolt. Trevor had said "house," not "hotel." The man lived three thousand miles away in New York City and had a house in London.
Would wonders never cease?
Composing herself, she took the driver's hand when he came around to her door.
"I'll bring your bags straight in, Miss Gallagher."
"Thank you very much." She crossed over and started up the short set of steps between rigorously formal hedges, hoping she looked as though she knew what she was doing.
The door opened before she'd worked out whether she should knock or just go inside. A tall, slim man with a fringe of white hair bowed to her. "Miss Gallagher. I hope your trip was pleasant. I'm Stiles, Mr. Magee's butler. We're pleased to welcome you."
"Thank you." She started to offer her hand, stopped. That probably wasn't done, particularly with British butlers.
"Would you care to see your room, or may we offer you some refreshment?"
"Ah, I'd like to see my room, if that's convenient."
"Of course. I'll see to your luggage. Winthrup will show you upstairs."
Winthrup moved forward with barely a sound, a wisp of a woman in the same formal black as the butler. Her hair was a colorless ash, quietly styled, her eyes pale as water behind thick lenses.
"Good morning, Miss Gallagher. If you'll follow me, I'll see you settled."
Don't gawk, you idiot. Trying desperately for casual, Darcy crossed the gleaming golden wood of the foyer, walked under the magnificence of the central chandelier, and started up the grandeur of the staircase.
She couldn't say it was like a palace. It was too ruthlessly dignified for that. Like a museum, she thought, all polished and hushed and intimidating.
There was art on the walls, but she didn't dare take time to study it. The walls themselves must have been papered in silk, so smooth and rich did they appear. She had to curl her fingers to keep them from touching.
The housekeeper, as she imagined Winthrup was the housekeeper, led the way down a corridor wainscoted in deep, rich wood. Darcy wondered how many rooms there were, how they were furnished, what she would see from the windows. Then Winthrup opened a deeply carved door onto luxury.
The bed was big as a lake, its four posters spearing toward the deeply coved ceiling. Darcy didn't know what sort of rugs were spread over the polished floor, but she could tell they were old and magnificent.
Everything-chest of drawers, bureaus, mirrors, tables-was polished to mirror gleams. Dozens of white roses bloomed out of a crystal vase that she imagined weighed ten pounds if it weighed an ounce.
Draperies of deep forest green were tied back with gold tassels, framing the glinting glass.
There was a fireplace fashioned out of white marble veined with rose, and towering candlesticks flanked the mantel. More flowers, lilies this time, in that same blinding white stood in the center.
A cozy arrangement, plush chairs, polished tables, was set in a way that invited her to settle in.
"The sitting room is to the right and the master bath to the left." Winthrup folded her thin hands. "Would you like me to unpack for you now, or would you prefer to rest a bit first?"
"I-" Darcy feared she might swallow her tongue. "Actually, I- no, I don't need to rest, thank you just the same."
"I'll be happy to show you around the house if you like."
"Do you think I might just wander about a bit?"
"Of course. Mr. Magee hopes you'll make yourself at home here. You've only to push nine on the house phone to reach me, and eight to reach Stiles. Perhaps you'd like to freshen up."
"I would, thank you very much." On rubbery legs, Darcy started toward the bath. The hell with it, she thought, turned back. "Miss Winthrup, it's a lovely room."
Winthrup's smile was as wispy as the rest of her, but it managed to soften her face a little. "Yes, it is."
Darcy walked into the bath, deliberately shut her eyes and leaned back on the door. She felt as though she were in a play, or one of her own more creative dreams. But she wasn't. It was real. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and little thrills of sheer pleasure dancing over her skin.
She sighed once, then opened her eyes to simply grin at the bathroom.
They must've taken out another room to make it so large, she imagined. More flowers graced the long counter between two oval sinks. The tiles, floor, and walls were of a soft seafoam green, so it seemed you were in some lovely underwater fantasy.
The tub, with its wide ledge covered with lush, ferny plants, was surely big enough for three. The shower was separate, a room in itself, she thought as she moved closer to investigate. Behind the waving glass were a half a dozen nozzles. She imagined it was like bathing in a waterfall and nearly stripped down to the skin then and there to see if she was right.
More crystal was set about, little bowls and dishes holding fragrant soaps or rose petals, pretty bottles holding bath oils and bath salts and creams. She sat on a padded bench at a separate counter obviously designed for milady and studied her own flushed and delighted face in the mirror.
"You've arrived, haven't you?"
Throughout his first meeting, and his second, Trevor kept Darcy tucked away. Or nearly. She had a baffling habit of popping out of the corner where he wanted her. Sliding out was more like it, he mused. Sneakily, sinuously sliding into his mind when it needed to be focused elsewhere.
He glanced at his watch, again. There were hours yet before he could afford to focus on her. But when he did, by God, he'd make sure the wait was worth it.
"Trev?"
"Hmm?" When he realized he was scowling, he smoothed out his features, waved a hand in apology. "Sorry, Nigel. My mind wandered."
"That's a new one."
Nigel Kelsey, the head of the London arm of Celtic Records, had a sharp eye, and sharper ears. He'd been with Trevor at Oxford, where they'd clicked. When the time had come to expand his personal baby into the international arena, Trevor had put the responsibility into Nigel's trusted hands.
"Just shuffling items in my head. Let's flip Shawn Gallagher to the top of the list."
"Happy to." Nigel sat back in his chair. He rarely used his desk, thought of it primarily as a prop.
He'd been earmarked to follow his father, and his father's father, into law, a fate that even now caused him to shudder. He hadn't wanted to thumb his nose at family tradition, precisely, but he was much happier putting what education he had to use doing something entertaining. Celtic Records was vastly entertaining, even if his old friend did run a tight ship. A tight ship, and a profitable one, Nigel thought now.
A ship that visited such fascinating ports. Part of his responsibilities, and he took them seriously, included attending parties, events, entertaining the talent. And doing it all on expense account.
"I'm negotiating with him one on one," Trevor continued. "Two on one, if we count his wife. And we should. I've advised him to get an agent." Nigel seemed a bit surprised, but Trevor only shrugged. "I like him, Nigel. And I intend to deal straight with him, since he won't go through a representative."
"You deal straight in any case, Trev. I'm the one who doesn't mind slipping a card from the bottom of the deck now and again. Just to liven things up."
"Not with him. Instinct tells me we've got a prize here, one that if left to his own pace will pay off for years."
"I agree with you. His work's brilliant, and very marketable."
"There's more."
"Is there?" Nigel puzzled again when Trevor rose to wander the office. It was a rare t
hing to see Trevor restless, to have the man let any restlessness show. Even to him. "I thought there might be when you scheduled this meeting in the middle of your other project."
"He has a brother and a sister. I want the three of them to record his stuff, for the first release."
Nigel frowned, drummed his hand, which was studded with rings. "Must be some brother and sister."
"Believe me."
"Still, Trev, you know it would be easier to market this package using an established artist."
"I'm leaving it to you to find a way around that." With a faint smile, Trevor turned back. "I've heard them. I want you to come to Ardmore for a couple of days. You listen, and if you think I'm wrong about this, we'll talk again."
"Ardmore." Nigel winced, then twisted the tiny gold hoop in his earlobe. "Jesus, Trev, what's an avowed urbanite like myself going to do in a barely-on-the-map Irish seaside village?"
"Listen," Trevor said simply. "There's something about the Gallaghers, but before I push the point with them or with you, I want you to see and hear for yourself. I want an objective opinion."
"And when hasn't your own been objective?"
"There's something about the Gallaghers," Trevor said again. "Something about Ardmore, the area." Unconsciously, he fingered the silver disk resting under his shirt. "Maybe it's the goddamn air, I don't know. I want you to come over. I want your take on it."
Nigel lifted his hands, let them fall. "You're the boss. I suppose I should see what there is about this place that's caused you to sink so much time, money, and effort into your theater brainstorm."
"It wasn't a brainstorm. It's a very solid business concept. Don't snort," Trevor warned, anticipating him.
"I never snort. I do occasionally guffaw, but I'll resist."
"Good. I have a new piece from Shawn Gallagher." Trevor walked over, retrieved the sheet music from his briefcase. "Take a look."
Nigel only smiled. "Rather hear it," he said and gestured to the piano across the room.
"All right, but he's orchestrated it for guitar, violin, and flute."
"I'll get the idea." Nigel closed his eyes as Trevor walked to the piano. He himself couldn't play a note, but he had an uncanny sense of music nonetheless.