She closed her eyes and remembered again the moment she had met his parents. It could have been awful, but he had chosen not to let her be humiliated and hurt. Most likely, he had only been trying to avoid a scene, but whatever his reason, she was grateful. And now she was in his arms, pressed against his body, and for the moment at least she saw no reason to leave.
Four
Sharon’s breath caught in her throat as the car she was riding in rounded a curve in the long drive and suddenly she saw SwanSea.
Autumn winds were gusting, bending the tree limbs halfway to the ground, and sending brilliantly colored leaves scurrying while waves pounded into the shore. Dark brooding clouds hung low. And amid it all, the great house of SwanSea—immense and magnificent—stood on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It seemed at one moment a living force, at another a work of art.
Conall had insisted they use his private plane to fly to Maine. But when Sharon had arrived at the airport, the pilot had handed her a message from Conall saying that a business emergency prevented him from joining her until later in the evening. Her first impulse had been to wait for him, but the pilot informed her that he had specific instructions to fly her to SwanSea and then return for Conall. The plane had flown into a small airport south of SwanSea’s closest town. A car and driver had been waiting for her.
And now she was there. She had read about the house, had even seen pictures of it, but nothing had prepared her for it.
As soon as the car rolled to a stop, a tall, dignified, silver-haired gentleman came out of one of the two carved black-walnut-front doors and descended the steps. Waving aside a waiting attendant, he opened the car door for her.
“Miss Graham?” he said in a clipped British accent, helping her out. “I’m Winston Lawrence, manager of SwanSea. Welcome. We are so pleased you are going to be with us for a while. ”
“Well, thank you.” She was somewhat taken aback by the personal greeting, since her usual greeting whenever she traveled was a polite request, accompanied occasionally by a smile, to sign the register.
“I hope your trip was pleasant,” he said, managing to supervise the unloading of her luggage while giving her his complete attention.
The wind whipped at her, pulling free the pins that had secured her hair at the back of her head. She brushed a heavy haze of hair from her face and inhaled the tangy scent of the sea. “The trip was fine. A bit bumpy because of the weather, but very short.”
“Yes, Mr. Deverell’s plane certainly makes quick work of the distance between here and Boston, doesn’t it? They notify us when it takes off from Logan, and then again when it lands here, so we’ll have a timetable with which to work.”
“I see.” She didn’t really, but she supposed it had something to do with the perks of being a Deverell. “Have you been informed of Mr. Deverell’s delay?”
He gave a brisk nod. “Our latest word is that he will arrive sometime this evening. Now, if you’ll just come this way, we’ll have you settled in no time.” He glanced over his shoulder at a young man dressed in a bellman’s uniform. “Peter will bring your bags.”
Instead of following right away, she hung back and gazed up at the house. It loomed before her with an aura of strength and indomitability. And she had the sudden, distinct impression she should proceed cautiously.
She was being absurd, she told herself in the next moment, and attempted to shake away the feeling. By the time she entered the grand entry hall, she had met with only limited success.
But everywhere she looked there was beauty. Dominating the entry hall was a huge marble center staircase with a Tiffany stained-glass window of a peacock gracing its first landing. Above her, flower-shaped light fixtures hung on forty-foot chains from the two-story vaulted ceiling. And as a complement to the splendor and grace, harp music floated out of a nearby room, wandered in and out of the thin green leaves of the palm trees that filled the comers, and whispered across the works of art on the walls. Wide-eyed with admiration, she took everything in.
She and the manager reached the fourth floor by a private elevator tucked beneath and behind the grand staircase. There, Winston Lawrence led her to the end of a long, wide hall and ushered her Into a suite.
“Mr. Deverell uses these rooms when he is with us. The suite at the other end of the hall is set aside for Mr. and Mrs. DiFrenza. The staff and I are hoping they will soon be bringing the young master for his first visit.”
She blinked. “You mean their new baby?”
“Yes. SwanSea will be his one day, you know.” It was a different way of thinking, she realized, and one in which she had had no experience. Winston Lawrence was gazing expectantly at her.
“In which bedroom would you like Peter to place your things?” he asked.
“Uh, which bedroom does Mr. Deverell normally use?”
“The one to your left.’”
“Then I'll take the other."
“Very good,” he said, his only expression one of a willingness to please. He motioned to Peter, and the young man vanished through a cream and gilded door with her luggage. “The staff is at your disposal, Ms. Graham. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, feeling a wild desire to tip him but knowing it wouldn’t be proper. She would be extra generous with Peter, she decided, but several minutes later when she tried, she met with refusal.
“We do not accept tips from the Deverells and their guests,” he said with a smile. “Have a nice day.”
And then she was left alone, feeling slightly shell-shocked by the place that would serve as her home for the next two weeks.
Gazing around her, she saw the sitting room of the suite was done in green, burgundy, and blue. French doors that opened out onto a terrace banked a marble fireplace carved with fluid, arabesque lines.
Out of curiosity, she made her way to the bedroom Winston Lawrence had said Conall used, and peeked in. A massive sleigh bed sat in the center of the room, covered by a royal purple spread with accent pillows of Chinese blue, deep green, burgundy, and red. A wrought-iron grapevine with leaves and twisting stems grew across the width of the wall above the bed. Springing from this fantasy grapevine were lights of different shapes and sizes, hanging like exotic blossoms. An oil painting commanded a second wall, its subjects a bare-breasted woman and the sea. The woman was partially dressed in red and gold flowing, diaphanous veils, and her long hair streamed sinuously out to blend with the sea and the veils.
The colors of the room were rich, muted, its texture sumptuous, sensual, and luxurious, its ambience unbearably erotic. She quickly left, crossed the sitting room, and opened the door to the bedroom she had chosen for herself.
This room had been done in the same colors as the other, only softer and with a sheen of iridescence. The oak and mahogany bed had been crafted with a flower-patterned marquetry of ash, satinwood, sycamore, and holly inlays. Stacked atop the lavender satin bedspread were pastel aqua and plum velvet pillows.
On a large bedside table, ten iridescent lilies, gold laid over green, drooped from gilt bronze stems—the lamp unmistakably the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany. A pearly opalescent vase filled with fresh cut orchids graced a dresser. Frieze figures of nude women encircled the vase.
The whole suite seemed to cocoon her in eroticism. It was just the art nouveau decor, she told herself.
Except there was one more thing. The obvious costliness and, in most cases, museum quality of the furnishings didn’t entirely explain why she felt as if she shouldn’t touch anything, perhaps, in fact, shouldn’t even stay.
Was it SwanSea, she wondered, protecting its own? Did the great house somehow sense that if her plan were successful, there would be a child with Deverell blood running through his or her veins who would never be able to claim it as home?
She touched her forehead. “Lord, Sharon, you are really losing it,” she whispered. “And not only that you’re talking to yourself.”
She jumped, then shook her head at her foolishness. She noticed her luggage neatly stacked on the padded bench at the end of the bed and decided to unpack, grateful she had found a distraction. Assuming Conall would arrive around six, she had a few hours to put away her things and accustom herself to her surroundings.
But at seven that evening a message arrived from Conall, letting her know he wouldn’t be able to make it for dinner. She frequently ate out alone, but SwanSea was having a strange effect on her, and she elected to have dinner brought to her room.
The noise of the storm eventually receded, though the rain continued. By ten o’clock she was soaking in the incredible seashell-shaped marble tub in her bathroom, trying to soothe nerves by this time strung painfully tight.
Her lips quirked at a thought. She would have felt better if she and Conall could have arrived together and gone right to bed. As it was, this wait was giving her ample opportunity to review every doubt and every fear she had ever had about her plan.
There was something wrong, something bothering her, something very important she felt she had overlooked. She just wished she could figure out what it was.
Once out of the tub, she dried off and automatically slipped her arms into her chenille bathrobe and wrapped it around her. She hadn’t known what sort of clothes to bring with her, so she had brought a little of everything, including her much-loved chenille robe. Over the years it had faded from its original dark blue to a whitish-blue, and frequent washing had claimed a portion of its chenille tufts. But it was soft and warm and whenever she put it on, she felt comforted.
She could think of nothing else to do, so she went into the sitting room and spent the next couple of hours curled up on a deep-green velvet couch in front of the fire.
At midnight, when Conall finally arrived and opened the door to the suite, he found the sitting room shadowed, with light streaming into the room from the bedroom to his right, and a red-gold glow coming from embers in the fireplace.
Sharon turned.
“Did you give up on me?” he asked her, waving the luggage-laden bellboy toward the left bedroom.
“I didn’t know what to think,” she said truthfully. There had been moments when she’d been afraid he wouldn’t come; then there’d been the fear he would.
“It was a day of problems," he said, crossing the room to sink wearily onto the couch beside her, a cushion away. “I just couldn't seem to break free.”
Her senses, already deluged, strained beneath the burden of his nearness. The sensual environment of their surroundings enhanced the impact of his masculinity in spite of the fact that the lines of his face seemed harsher tonight, his skin paler. “You look tired.”
He eyed her thoughtfully, then propped his elbow on the back of the couch and rubbed his forehead. “And you look tense.”
“I am a little. Waiting for you here, alone, with nothing to do . . .” She shrugged.
“Didn’t you get out of the suite?”
“I decided to wait. Swansea is a little overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming?” He frowned. “You’re not intimidated, are you?”
“I’m not sure if Intimidated is the right word.” She paused, attempting to clarify her impressions. “It’s simply that I’m getting the strangest feeling, as if there’s some uncertainty here about whether or not to welcome me.”
His gaze sharpened. “Are you telling me the staff—”
“No, no. They’ve gone overboard to be hospitable. It’s the house. Or hotel, or whatever this place is. It’s SwanSea.”
He laughed, then abruptly groaned and increased the pressure of his fingers, rubbing them back and forth across his forehead. “I had no idea you were so impressionable.”
“I’m not normally. In fact, I can't ever remember feeling this way before. Conall, are you all right? Is there something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. And I’m sure once you learn to find your way around SwanSea you’ll be all right. We can explore tomorrow.”
If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she would have missed the wince he gave, because he quickly schooled his expression to normality. “Conall, what’s wrong? Why are you rubbing your head like that?”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Just a slight headache.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“No. It’ll go away.” He dropped his hand to the back of the couch. “So, tell me, besides this very peculiar reaction you’re having to the house, is everything else to your liking?”
"What’s not to like? It’s fabulous.”
He glanced over her shoulder and saw the light streaming from the second bedroom. “You decided to use that room?”
“Mr. Lawrence told me you always take the other.”
“Separate bedrooms, Sharon? That’s going to make it rather difficult for you to get pregnant unless you know something I don’t.”
“I don’t have to sleep with you.” She made a vague gesture. “I’ll go back to my room after . . . afterward.” Instead of the sarcastic retort she had expected, she received a grunt. He was rubbing his temple again. “Your head really is hurting, isn’t it?”
“It’s nothing.”
She made a disgusted sound. “Honestly! Men are either complete babies about pain or they refuse to acknowledge it. I might have known you’d be the type to refuse to acknowledge it.”
“You sound like an expert on men.”
“I’ve worked with enough over the years,” she muttered, scooting across the cushion to him. “Let me see if I can help.” She placed her hands at his temples and began to rub in tiny circles over his forehead, down the side of his face to the back of his neck, then returning to his forehead to repeat the process.
At first he kept his eyes shut. There was an exquisite quality to her touch as she attempted to smooth away his pounding pain. He liked the way her breath lightly fanned his face. And he enjoyed inhaling the clean, lightly floral, definitely feminine scent of her. Slowly awareness began to replace pain.
“Does your work do this to you?” she asked softly, concentrating on applying the correct amount of pressure.
He opened his eyes. "Sometimes.”
“If you take into account all of the Deverell holdings, you must have thousands of employees. I can’t believe out of all those people, there aren’t at least a few who could take part of the burden from you.” The softness of her tone carried a hint of anger.
“I have top-flight people working for me, Sharon.”
“Then you must not be delegating properly.” Now she sounded as if she were scolding him. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was concerned. “I can delegate all day long,” he said quietly, “but I’m still the person at the end of the chain of command. I always have to be right.” “I guess I’ve never thought of it in quite that way before,” she murmured, giving consideration to what he said. Conall had an empire and all the benefits that went with it, but it seemed the cost of those benefits was quite high.
“You have a wonderful touch,” he whispered. “It’s almost worth the headache.”
The intimate timbre of his whisper caused a flickering of warmth in her. She tensed, hoping to avoid a fire. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.”
He reached out and lightly stroked his fingers down the side of her neck. “I like your robe.”
She had forgotten how close she was to him or even what she had on. “It’s very old. ” She quickly sat back.
His mouth twisted wryly. “I see there are still a few thorns.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Thoms, remember? If I tried to hold you right now, I’d get stuck and probably bleed. I guess it’s the price I have to pay for leaving you alone the last five days.”
“You were busy.”
“Yes, I was. Besides that, it was probably best I stayed away
from you until now. I couldn’t have been with you without wanting to make love to you." His finger found her collarbone and lightly caressed its length. “What about you? What have you been doing for the past five days?”
Breath lodged in her throat; a mild panic set in. She had to remind herself that his question signified nothing more than casual interest. “Winding things up.”
He nodded. “The company you work for has a good reputation, although we’ve never done business with them.”
“I know.” Humor sprang to life in his eyes, deepening the color of blue and catching her attention.
"Sounds like you checked it out before you went to work there.”
She fought against a smile, however brief it would have been. “I did. I didn’t want to be employed by a company where I might have to come into contact with you.”
“But in the end you sought me out.”
“For a personal reason that had nothing to do with business.” She saw him wince again. “I thought you said you felt better.”
“I do.”
“Yeah, sure you do. I’m going to call down for aspirin.”
“No, don’t bother the staff.”
“Bother them? I’m sure they’d gladly bring you a whole pharmacy if you asked them.”
“You think so?” he asked.
Again she saw the humor glinting in his eyes, almost, she thought, as if he were enjoying being with her. “I know so.”
“I’ll tell you what, let’s go swimming instead. It will help both my headache and your tension.” “Swimming? But it’s after midnight.”
“Is there something else you’d rather do?”
She thought of the alternative—staying in the suite and going to bed with him. “A swim sounds good.”
“Did you bring a swimsuit?”
She nodded.
“Good, then get it, and I’ll meet you back in here in a few minutes. And wear a coat. The rain has stopped and the pool house isn’t very far, but it’s a cool evening.”
The Promise Page 6