by J. R. Ward
“This is going to suck!”
“Your life’s intolerable if you’re here alone and it’s intolerable if you’re not?”
“I’d rather be alone than with you!”
Cort bolted from the room, slamming the door so hard its mahogany panels wobbled.
Nick shook his head, feeling ancient. He had done end runs on some of the most ruthless men on Wall Street, had dreamed up financial transactions that revolutionized mergers and acquisitions practice, had been an advisor to presidents, for God’s sakes.
But ten minutes in an enclosed space with Cort and he felt like he didn’t know his ass from his elbow.
He rose from his leather chair and went to the bank of windows that overlooked the lake. He could feel a migraine coming on, his back was stiff from flying in from Japan the night before, and he had the nagging sense he’d forgotten something important. Trying to ward off six hours of pain and nausea from the headache, he put a couple of pills under his tongue and rubbed the back of his neck while they dissolved.
A soft knock sounded behind him.
“Come in,” he said, without turning.
Immediately, Nick knew who’d entered his study. He could smell her perfume, an expensive French concoction he hated. It was sickly sweet and clung to the insides of his nostrils, egging on the migraine.
Pivoting around, Nick watched as Candace Hanson, his girlfriend of six months, walked across the study. She had a placid smile pinned on her lovely face, and her shoulder-length blond hair was styled in a breezy, I’m-at-the-lake kind of look. The white linen shorts and polo shirt she was wearing were perfect for a tennis game they would never see, and her athletic shoes were sparkling fresh, right out of the box.
Flawless as always, he thought, feeling nothing as he looked at her.
Their relationship was strictly a social convenience, with little intimacy other than sex. It was just what he wanted, all he had time for, and, up until recently, she’d played by the rules. She’d never pushed him for more, had always been available when he wanted her, and was good at playing hostess at his parties. There was trouble on the horizon, however. The m-word had crept into her vocabulary, and that meant her days were numbered.
Candace sat down in the chair opposite his desk, crossing her legs modestly and folding her hands together on her knee.
Nick groaned. Whenever she took a seat, he knew it was going to be more than a five-minute review of the social calendar.
“I want to reassure you,” she said in her prim way, “that everything is all set for tomorrow evening.”
This pronouncement was followed by a wide smile that didn’t add life to her eyes. Even though her teeth glimmered a cheerful white and her lips were arranged with the appropriate lift in the corners, there was something vacant in the arrangement of features. In fact, there was something fundamentally expressionless about her face. At first this had intrigued him, making him wonder what was behind the mask. But, as he’d gotten to know her better, he’d begun to suspect that her best assets were the exterior ones.
“What about tomorrow night?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Our party, darling,” she murmured. “For the opera house.”
Nick blinked. The migraine was really gearing up now, poking holes in his vision until Candace was lost in the sea of black spots.
“We have fifty coming for dinner,” she prompted gently.
So that was what he was forgetting.
The phone rang on his desk.
Annoyed, he wondered whether there was anyone else who wanted to chime in and thought they’d better do it quick. In another ten minutes, he was going to be out of commission.
“Excuse me,” he said, knowing she would wait.
Nick picked up the phone and when he heard who was calling, he put it against his shoulder and turned back toward Candace. “We’ll talk more later.”
She stood up and smiled serenely. “That would be lovely, but don’t worry. Everything’s taken care of.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
The door closed behind her with barely a sound.
She was a ghost, he thought. Someone who just floated through life, not really touching anything or anyone.
“Mr. Farrell?” the voice on the line repeated.
“I’m here,” he clipped, trying to see his watch. Moving it into the part of his vision that was still working, he decided he was down to about five minutes before the pain would hammer him flat.
“Mr. Wessex is now on the line.”
“Nick, how are you?” the man said.
“Fine,” he replied, falling into his chair. “But I’m a little busy.”
He was going to have to start throwing up soon.
“I understand completely.” Wessex’s voice had the polished resonance of money, power, and the man’s blue-blood lineage. “I’m just calling to check in on our little transaction.”
“Our little transaction” was the business deal Nick had been poring over when the latest squall with Cort had blown into the room. The negotiation involved close to a billion dollars and was a joint assault against an enemy Nick was determined to crush.
“Tell you what,” he said, his mouth growing dry as the pain arrived. “We’re having a get-together tomorrow night. Why don’t you come up? You can fly into Albany, take a limo from there. We’ve invited a good number, but you and I can find a quiet corner and cover the issues then.”
“That’s a lovely invitation. Tell me, when are you and that beautiful Candace going to tie the knot?”
Nick had two words come to mind. Snowball and hell.
“Are you free tomorrow?” he asked, dodging the bullet.
“Unfortunately, no. I’m going to spend the rest of this month in South America, and I need to get everything settled here in the city before I go. My lawyers will know where I am at all times, of course, but I’m assuming we won’t be ready to stage the ambush until I get back.”
Nick started breaking out in a cold sweat.
“I think that’s right,” he mumbled, out of time. “Have a safe trip.”
Somehow, he managed to hang up the phone and limp over to his couch, dragging a wastepaper basket with him. Lying flat on his back, he put his forearm over his eyes to block out all the sunlight in the room.
Why couldn’t his ancestors have built their summer retreat in a cave?
The pain was white-hot, shooting through his head like fire, pulsing with the beat of his heart. Images swirled in his mind, hallucinations from the headache and the medication. He was trying to make sense of the collage when someone lifted his arm and put an ice pack on his forehead.
“Gertie,” he groaned. “How come you always know?”
The older woman laughed quietly and he heard her going around and shutting all the drapes. “I just do.”
When she came back to him, Nick opened his eyes a crack, seeing the coarse, wrinkled, and beautiful face of the woman who’d raised him. Gertie McNutt had been with the Farrells all her life, as had her mother before her and her grandmother before that. There’d been members of her family working on the Farrell land as long as there had been Farrells owning it.
She reached down and stroked his hair.
“I hate this,” he said, his deep voice uncharacteristically thin in the still air.
“I know, chou-chou,” Gertie murmured. “But it’ll be over soon.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting from here to there that’s going to hurt.”
She stayed a while longer and then left him to the darkness and the agony. There was nothing more she could offer him in the way of relief. The tempest was his, and only his, to endure.
Good thing he was tough, Nick thought as another wave of pain crashed over him.
His stomach lurched and he rolled over, grabbing blindly for the wastepaper basket. The last thing he did before he passed out was throw up the lunch Gertie had made for him.
2
THE NEXT day, Carter took the ferry
across Lake Champlain to New York State. She was first going to visit a colleague’s excavation on the grounds of Fort Sagamore and then she was going to talk Nick Farrell into letting her dig holes in his mountain. After spending a couple of hours on the fort’s grounds, she followed Grace’s directions and headed a few miles south until she saw two stone pillars at the side of the road. Pulling her Jeep in between them, she went up a gravel drive marked by an alley of chestnut trees.
When the mansion was revealed in all its glory, her breath caught. Perched on a bluff, the estate was framed by the lake and the towering peak of Farrell Mountain. She wasn’t sure what was most impressive—the house, the shimmering water, or the looming presence of the mountain.
She pulled over and slid out of the driver’s seat, intent on taking a look around. The gravel drive she’d come in on formed a circle in front of the mansion and had an offshoot that headed over to what she imagined was the service entrance.
Farrell’s vacation home was a sublime example of the Federal style, a white palace with black shutters that had a gracious, formal facade. The center torso of the place was balanced by two wings, which meant a small army could probably sleep under its roof. As she lost count of the windows and porches, she imagined that a person would be able to hear the sound of water lapping against the shore and catch the whisper of a summer breeze in every room.
Turning toward the lake, she smiled at the sight of a six-sided gazebo, an invitation to spend a lazy afternoon reading if she’d ever seen one. It was also painted white but had a red asphalt roof and intricate, curvaceous details around its eaves. Down farther, there was a matching gingerbread boathouse at the water’s edge and, just off the dock, she saw a sailboat bobbing on soft waves. Over to the left was a tennis court tucked against the woods and a croquet set was marking the side lawn, just waiting for a game.
Summer camp for the wealthy, she thought wryly. You get reserve cellar Burgundy instead of bug juice at dinner and everyone has their own bathroom.
Turning back to the house, she noticed a wildflower meadow behind it filled with Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod, and long grass. The two-acre expanse stretched back to a forest of pines, birches, and poplars that carpeted the foot of the mountain.
Carter guessed the field would probably be filled with fireflies at night. Just like hers was.
Suddenly, the peacefulness of the place was shattered. With a roaring noise and sprinkle of gravel, a van came down the drive and almost mowed her down.
In the split second before she leapt out of the way, she saw the name of a caterer she remembered from her society days in New York City. As she choked on dust, she wondered what it was doing upstate and watched as it joined others that were huddled around the service entrance of the house. In contrast to the rest of the estate, which exuded serenity, people were frantically running around, carrying heavy loads. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed the commotion sooner.
All the activity galvanized her, and she marched over to the mansion, leaping up glossy black stairs to the front door. There, she was confronted by a brass knocker the size of a football. She lifted the lion’s head and let it fall. The resulting sound was like thunder and she winced.
Noise like that could wake the dead. It made her wonder if Farrell had a butler like Lurch to answer it.
While waiting, she inspected two white, ceramic dogs that were parked on either side of the doorway. Their amber eyes were fixed ahead on some distant, timeless fascination, and they were in perfect condition, just like the rest of the estate. Antiques—she guessed they had been bought new by one of Farrell’s ancestors.
Hearing something approach from above, Carter glanced up just as a magnificent red-tailed hawk swept down out of the blue sky and landed on one of the tree limbs just over her head. The bird reordered its wings with a minimum of fuss and looked down at her, as if it were waiting for her to go into the house.
How odd, she thought, feeling a chill.
Carter was debating whether to tackle the lion’s head again when the door opened. Lurch wasn’t on the other side but he might have been an improvement over what answered the door.
She’d seen more welcoming expressions in a dark alley.
The blond woman staring back at Carter was a patrician beauty queen. Standing at the threshold of the mansion, she was exhibiting the kind of elegant inhospitality that only the very privileged could pull off.
Carter knew the type.
“I’m here to see Mr. Farrell.” Her voice was deep and full of command and the woman on the other side looked surprised.
“I beg your pardon?”
It was interesting how the right tone of voice could turn even polite words into an insult, Carter reflected.
“Mr. Farrell,” she repeated slowly. “I’m here to see him.”
Disapproving eyes passed over her, from her hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail, to her bare arms, to her formfitting shorts and her tattered running shoes. When the blue chips swung upward again, they were even more frosty.
“I can’t imagine he is expecting you.”
As if the man would no sooner be waiting on a truckload of manure.
“If you could just let him—”
“I’m glad you’re finally here,” came another voice. An older woman appeared, wiping her hands on a gingham apron. Her hair was white and pulled back with combs, her face lined and tanned. Although she was addressing Carter, her eyes were focused elsewhere, beyond the doorway. Curious, Carter turned and saw the red-tailed hawk leap from its perch, its great wings punching the air as it flew away.
As the chill went through her again, Carter mulled over the legends of Red Hawk’s visits to the mountain. Trying to shake a feeling of premonition, she turned back.
“I thought I told you to have the waitresses come to the back door,” the blonde was saying with haughty authority.
“Yes, you did.”
The reply was an offhand remark and with it, Carter knew exactly who was in charge. It sure as hell wasn’t the woman who’d opened the door.
“If you’d move your car?” the older woman asked Carter politely. “Meet me around back at the service entrance.”
Carter nodded. When they met up again amidst the busy but well-ordered rush in the kitchen, the woman introduced herself.
“I’m Gertie McNutt. I run this place.”
“Carter Wessex.” They shook hands briskly.
“Dinner will be served at seven thirty but you’ll need to pass hors d’oeuvres from six on. We have uniforms here. What size are you?”
Carter frowned in confusion. “I’m not here to waitress. I’m here to see Mr. Farrell.”
The brown eyes staring at her narrowed suspiciously. “About?”
“I’m an archaeologist and I—”
The woman started shaking her head. “He doesn’t like archaeologists much.”
“So I’ve heard. I just want to ask him if I can dig up on the mount—”
“He doesn’t like people digging up there.”
Carter took a deep breath. “Heard that, too. But if I could just ask him—”
“He doesn’t like being asked.”
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes in frustration. “Does the guy like anything? Or is he really as bad-humored as his reputation suggests?”
Flushing, Carter clamped her mouth shut. Great, she thought. She’d just managed to insult Farrell to his staff while trying to get in to see the man without an appointment.
“Sorry about that crack,” she muttered.
There was a pause as she was subjected to a frank appraisal. While she waited to be summarily tossed off the property, she wondered whether cops were going to be involved.
Instead, the woman smiled. “Tell you what. I’ll give you twenty minutes to see for yourself if he’s that awful. If you’re crazy enough to want to give it a try, you might as well get the full experience. Besides, the way he’ll throw you out will be a heck of a lot more interesting and i
nventive than anything I could do to you.”
Carter gave the woman a frozen smile, feeling like she’d volunteered for torture. “Thanks.”
Swallowing unexpected fear, she followed the woman through the house, taking in the spacious rooms. Every one was filled with antiques and an air of elegant leisure, with freshly cut flowers adding to the sophistication and grace. When they came to a stout mahogany door, the other woman paused before knocking.
“Do yourself a favor. Make it short and sweet. He likes things that way.”
She knocked, and when a muffled reply was heard, the housekeeper opened the door and they walked into an old-world study.
Nick Farrell looked up from an ornate desk and Carter’s feet stopped working.
The man’s eyes were the most unusual color, a gray so pale that the irises were almost invisible, and being looked over by them was like getting hit by a blowtorch. He seemed to absorb every nuance of her appearance—her expression, the space she took up. He was, she realized, powerfully intelligent, immutably domineering, and, surprisingly, the hardness emanating from him only added to his allure. It made her wonder if there was any softness in him at all, and she imagined that women had driven themselves crazy trying to find it.
With a shiver of awareness passing through her body, she knew his face must have launched a thousand women’s fantasies. He had high cheekbones, a chiseled jawline and a strong, straight nose. His hair was thick and dark, brushed off his forehead, and his skin was tanned. The lips caught and held her attention. The lower one was fuller and she wondered, in a flash of insanity, what it would be like to kiss him.
Her heart began to pound and, as if he’d caught the scent of her thoughts, she saw speculation flare in his expression. Abruptly, she was assessed as a woman. As those eyes narrowed and lingered on her legs, a flush bloomed deep inside of her.
Before she allowed herself to speculate on what he thought of her, she told herself not to bother. The man was a heartbreak waiting to happen. Not for her, of course. But she pitied whoever fell for someone like him.
“This woman is here to see you,” Gertie announced.