Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  Neither had Devlin.

  This was all Four’s fault. He knew that. He was a screwup, always had been. But when he’d falsified those books in his father’s corporation, he hadn’t realized Devlin would get so pissed off. Sure, Four had personally convinced him to buy stock, but what was a couple of million bucks to a guy like Devlin?

  But when he’d said that to Devlin, Devlin had looked at him, and Four had taken about five steps back. Even now he shuddered at the memory of Devlin’s bitter dark eyes. Devlin had taken Four’s little embezzlement as a betrayal, and no one betrayed Devlin without suffering repercussions.

  So Bradley Benjamin the third had had to choose—sell Waldemar to the bastard son of the upstart Fitzwilliams, or let his son go to prison. It had been close, but now Devlin owned a new hotel, and Four’s father’s enmity toward his only son had deepened.

  “Four, when I speak to you, I like to know that you heard me.” Like a bulldog, Mr. Hopkins had his teeth sunk into Four’s flesh, and he wouldn’t give up.

  “I remember everything,” Four said.

  After Waldemar’s sale, Four had thought the worst was over.

  But no. Because some guy he’d never heard of had bought a bunch of stock, too, and Mr. Hopkins didn’t possess Devlin’s kind, gentle soul.

  Four’s mouth dried as he remembered the warehouse where Mr. Hopkins and his men had taken him. He hadn’t believed their threats at first. Stuff like breaking fingers and slicing off ears happened in the movies, not to the son of a distinguished Southern family. But those guys had done both, and all the time he’d screamed, Mr. Hopkins had been talking, talking, talking.

  All too soon, it was clear to Four he’d been played for a fool. Mr. Hopkins had known the stock was no good. He’d bought it to put Four into his debt, so he could send Four into the house where he’d once lived to retrieve a painting unlike any Four had ever seen there.

  “How much more of the house do you have to search?” Mr. Hopkins asked.

  “I’ve worked my way through all the rooms on the first two floors and the basement. I’ve been in all the closets. I’ve searched the pantry. No luck so far.” Four hesitated, but what had he to lose by telling the truth? “You know, that painting you described—it’s not even Isabelle’s style.”

  “Please. Four. Don’t tell me my business.” Mr. Hopkins’s voice sharpened.

  For an instant Four thought he heard something—some tone, some accent—that sounded familiar.

  But Mr. Hopkins’s next words drove the thought from his mind. “Do you remember in that warehouse when one of my men held a knife to your . . . what’s the anatomical name? Ah, yes. Scrotum.”

  Four swallowed.

  “With one word from me, you could find another knife pointing at your scrotum. And with one word from me, you could find it cut off.”

  Four breathed heavily, trying to subdue his nausea.

  “It’s an unpleasant operation. There’s a lot of blood. The victim screams a lot. And if he recovers, which is not guaranteed, he wishes he had died. Please keep that in mind as you search for the painting I described.” The click as Mr. Hopkins hung up was almost inaudible.

  Four headed for the bathroom. Holding himself over the toilet, he retched until tears came to his eyes.

  The goddamned picture wasn’t here. How could he find something that wasn’t here?

  And how much more time did he have before Mr. Hopkins took matters in his own hands, and sent his goons to kill them all?

  How much time?

  “Do you think she knew I was under the covers?” Meadow shimmied into her jeans.

  “I’d wear a sundress.” Devlin zipped up his beige linen slacks.

  “A sundress? To meet your mother?” Wait a minute. He was distracting her. “So you do think she knew I was under the covers?”

  “My mother will never acknowledge it if she did.” The short sleeves of his polo shirt cut across his biceps in a most spectacular manner, and the dark blue made his eyes gleam when he looked at her undressed from the waist up. “And yes, when it comes to clothes, my mother’s quite the fashion maven.”

  “But she should meet me as I really am.” Meadow grabbed a cap-sleeved pink T-shirt and pulled it over her head.

  He walked over to her and pulled the shirt back off.

  “This is no time for that.” The man was insatiable. She liked that.

  He handed her a bra. “I’ve found, in dealing with my mother, that the less she knows, the better. She’s like a steamroller, and once she starts rolling there’s no escaping her. She’ll flatten you unless you get out of the way.”

  Meadow looked at the bra, shrugged, and clipped it on. “You make her sound awful.”

  “She’s not awful. She’s a woman of power. She gets things done. You’ll see.” He tugged the shirt over her head and handed her a pair of sandals.

  “That sounds ominous.” She shoved her feet into the shoes.

  “Ominous. Good choice of words.” He took her arm and led her down the stairs to the elegant room where she’d hidden her key among the couch cushions. Eyeing the couch, she wondered if it was still there.

  The room where the painting was supposed to hang on the wall over the fireplace, but didn’t.

  She flicked a resentful glance at the pompous old gentleman who hung there instead.

  The room where she’d first seen Devlin Fitzwilliam.

  Well. So the place wasn’t all bad.

  She straightened when a dainty, elegant woman rose from behind the dainty, elegant desk in the corner.

  Devlin’s mother was absolutely the right weight for her height; her blond hair was carefully colored and highlighted; she wore a lightweight pink wool suit with a skirt; and her skin had the sheen and texture of porcelain. Yet for all that she appeared to be every inch a Southern lady, she projected the kind of authority Meadow saw in her son.

  When she stepped forward to hug him, she projected a stiff affection.

  He pecked her cheek. “Mother, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to the Secret Garden?”

  “You can imagine my surprise when I met Scrubby Gallagher in Atlanta and he told me he’d met my new daughter-in-law.” Her blue eyes were cool as she observed Meadow, from her unpedicured toes to her unaccessorized top. Her glance at Meadow’s hair was a critique, and Meadow realized Devlin’s mother had most definitely known she was under the covers—and she did not approve.

  She did not approve of any such ill-advised and passionate behavior. She did not approve of Meadow’s attire or grooming. She most certainly did not approve of her son’s marriage to a hooligan, and she was plain ol’ pissed about being left out of the loop.

  And obviously everything was Meadow’s fault.

  So Meadow responded in the best way she knew how. She opened her arms wide, said, “Grace, dearest!” and headed for Devlin’s mother.

  Meadow caught Grace on the first pass and gave her a hug that rumpled her jacket and disarrayed her careful coiffure. She caught a glimpse of Devlin’s amused, appalled expression.

  “Mother, this is Meadow. Meadow, please meet my mother, Grace Fitzwilliam.”

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Grace, so I can thank you for raising my wonderful husband.” Meadow beamed at her. “I just knew we would get along!”

  Grace winced and rather forcefully disengaged herself. “Yes. Well. Yes. Lovely. So glad . . . But to not tell me!”

  “It’s a long story, Mother.” Before Meadow could hug her again, Devlin pulled her close to his side—and no matter how hard she squirmed, he wouldn’t loosen his grip.

  “I suppose your parents know, er, Meadow.” Grace tidied her suit.

  “Not . . . exactly.” Meadow shifted her feet and hoped Grace wouldn’t pursue that line of questioning. Based on nothing more than a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, the woman clearly considered her a misfit. If—when—she heard the story of Meadow’s amnesia, she could consider her a head case.

  “If you’re trying to kee
p this union a secret,” Grace said, “there are better ways to do it than to parade around Amelia Shores causing Bradley Benjamin a heart attack.”

  “She didn’t cause him a heart attack,” Devlin said frostily. “He suffered angina, and I hear he’s perfectly healthy again.”

  “Although if he did have a heart, it would certainly attack him,” Meadow said.

  “Bradley Benjamin is one of our leading citizens,” Grace answered.

  Meadow couldn’t believe Grace was defending him. “He was mean to Devlin.”

  “But he’s older and in ill health, so we allow him his foibles.” Grace sounded calm, smooth, and so civilized.

  Sort of like Devlin sounded when he was angry.

  Fascinating.

  Seating herself at the desk once more, Grace sorted through the papers stacked there, found one she wanted, and extended it to Devlin. “There’s the guest list. I’ll need Meadow’s list before I order the invitations.”

  Devlin glanced at the sheet and shrugged. “Invite whomever you like, Mother.”

  Meadow felt as if she’d missed part of the conversation. “What list? For what?”

  Devlin continued as if Meadow had never spoken. “Perhaps we could combine that party with the grand opening of the Secret Garden.”

  “What party?” Meadow asked.

  Grace handed her the list. “That’s rather impersonal.”

  “Not at all. Having two parties in a row would dilute them both,” he said.

  “Hmm. Yes, that’s a point.” Grace brightened. “Plus, I’d have a bigger budget for both.”

  “What party?” Meadow was considerably louder this time.

  “My goodness, Meadow.” Grace blinked as if shocked at Meadow’s tone. “The party where we officially announce and celebrate your marriage to Devlin, of course!”

  Not a good idea. It was one thing to flirt with him. To tease him into enjoying life. To have a small fling with him.

  But a party? Where Meadow met not just Four, but all Devlin’s friends and business associates? How dumb would that be? It seemed every time she took a step on the way to finding the painting, the shit got piled higher and deeper.

  “I think we’re ready to meet people, darling.” Devlin looked into her eyes.

  She saw the mockery there, brought her foot down on his, and ground it into his instep. “I think I need time to get used to my new home before we make an official announcement.”

  He bore the pain stoically. “Let me do the thinking. You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about a thing.”

  Using all her teeth, she smiled into his face. “I can’t help but worry, darling, knowing how much this grand opening means to you.”

  “To us. To our future.” How he enjoyed testing her! Would she break and tell the truth rather than suffer the ordeal of a party feting their union?

  His mother, of course, was impervious to the undercurrents. “Since you two aren’t agreeing about this, we’ll do it my way.” Going to the table, she opened the boxes and pulled out a froth of packing paper. “I brought some things to use as decoration. Just some small things, Devlin; I know how much you hate my taste.”

  “I don’t hate your taste, Mother. But I have my own decorators.”

  “And they’ve done such a quaint job.” Grace waved a hand around at the exquisitely old-fashioned room.

  “Quaint or not, I can’t afford your idea of decorating. It’s expensive, and I need things done when I need them done, not when you get the time in your schedule.” They’d had this discussion before, and he was tired of it.

  “I know that. I’m not reproaching you.” At the point of losing, Grace abandoned the argument and pulled out a piece of china. “I found this for your display case.”

  “Oh.” Meadow went to the box as if she couldn’t resist. “This is wonderful. It’s nineteenth-century Chinese cloisonné, isn’t it?”

  Grace looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns. “Yes, a footed bowl.”

  “Gorgeous! What else do you have?” Meadow carefully removed some of the cardboard packing and found a covered casserole. “English, of course. Portmeirion, Botanic Gardens?”

  “That’s right,” Grace said.

  “A good pattern for a party. Expensive but not precious.” Meadow put it aside.

  At his mother’s indignant sputter, Devlin subdued a grin.

  “Well, of course, it’s very nice.” Meadow didn’t seem to realize how deeply she was wounding his mother, who so despised nice. “You don’t want to spend a whole party terrified that someone’s going to break your precious antiques, do you?”

  Devlin leaned a hip against the couch and settled down to enjoy himself. “Mother likes to spend her time torn between terror and triumph.”

  Grace glared at her son. “I simply don’t believe Portmeirion is ordinary.”

  “I didn’t say ordinary,” Meadow protested. “I said it was nice.”

  She’d just condemned the Portmeirion to perdition.

  Delving farther into the box, she brought up another, smaller box.

  “Be careful!” Grace said sharply.

  But Meadow unwrapped the tall vase inside with reverent hands. “A Steuben. I love their work. Look at the iridescence!” She held it in the sunshine and it flashed with purple, blue, and gold. Running her fingers around the rim, she said, “It’s in good condition, too—no chips, only a few minor scratches.”

  The interaction between his mother and his lover fascinated him, but more than that, Meadow’s knowledge and the way she handled the bowl made Devlin remember the night she’d arrived, and how indignantly she’d refused to throw up in the precious Honesdale vase.

  His mother hated one-upmanship—if she was the one being one-upped. With a flourish she unwrapped a wide-lipped glass bowl with swirls of red and pink and orange and jagged hints of purple. “I’ll bet you don’t know this one.” Before Meadow could identify the artist, Grace hastily added, “It’s a River Szarvas.”

  “River Szarvas. Really?” Meadow pinned Grace with a look.

  Grace actually squirmed. “It’s reputed to be a Natalie Szarvas. But the dealer who sold it to me didn’t believe it, and neither do I. Natalie is River’s daughter, so he has reason to build her reputation, but the girl’s only twenty. She couldn’t make such a mature piece at that age.”

  “Of course not.” Meadow cradled the bowl.

  “It’s like holding a drop of sunset,” Grace said.

  “Exactly.” Meadow smiled.

  Every day since Meadow had landed on the floor of his library, Devlin had carefully observed her. He couldn’t quite read her thoughts yet, but he was getting there . . . and she had some interesting thoughts. “So this River fellow is setting up an art dynasty.”

  “He runs an artists’ colony in the mountains in Washington,” Grace said. “Very large, very well respected, and apparently quite . . . bohemian.”

  A grin broke across Meadow’s face.

  “Bohemian?” His suspicions were rapidly becoming certainties.

  “I believe your mother is trying to say they’re a bunch of old hippies,” Meadow informed him.

  “Well, yes. So I’ve heard.” Grace grimaced. “Their home in the mountains of Washington was a lodestone for artists, glassblowers, and, for God’s sake, environmentalists.”

  “Heaven forbid!” To his ear, Meadow sounded phonily incredulous.

  “According to my art dealer, everyone is welcome, and there’s scarcely a night when they don’t have guests ‘sacked out’ ”—Grace made quotation marks with her fingers—“on the floor in the studio.”

  “That is bohemian,” Meadow said.

  Devlin could almost see her hidden amusement.

  “But they’re artists.” Grace lifted an elegant shoulder. “What can you expect?”

  “Exactly.” Meadow handed her the bowl. “That’s quite a find.”

  “If you ladies will excuse me, I’ll leave you to your decorating. I have some w
ork to catch up on.” As he left Meadow alone with his mother, he heard Grace grilling Meadow about her family, where she’d gone to school, and what she did for a living. Glancing back, he saw Meadow’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, and he enjoyed himself far more than he should.

  When he reached his office, he was surprised to see that Sam wasn’t anywhere to be found. Poor guy, he’d been working full-tilt for days. Maybe he’d finally crashed.

  Devlin went to his desk. He didn’t even sit down, but typed in Natalie Szarvas, and after Google had chided him for spelling it wrong, it took him to her home page—and he found himself looking at a picture of Meadow, hair up, sweat sheening her face as she worked the glass.

  Natalie Meadow Szarvas.

  He’d discovered who she was. Now only two questions remained. Exactly why was she here—and how long could he keep her?

  24

  Meadow walked out of the library at a sedate, reasonable pace, and as soon as she was out of sight she broke and ran up the stairs.

  She could kill Devlin for leaving her alone with that woman.

  Shallow, self-important, domineering—every one of those words fit Grace Fitzwilliam to a T. Not to mention that she’d interrogated Meadow about her family, her background, her talents, her disposition, and her fertility. Grace was absolutely ferocious in her defense of her son. In fact, that was the only thing Meadow liked about Grace, or would have liked if that scariness hadn’t been turned on her.

  Rounding a corner toward their bedroom, Meadow ran into smack into Sam.

  He rocked back on his heels, but he was sturdy and muscular and took the hit well. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, is there a problem?” As always, he didn’t look as if he really cared; it was a polite question only.

  “Yes. I mean, no.” She flapped a feeble hand back down the stairs. “I just left Grace Fitzwilliam in the library.”

  “Ah, yes.” Sam nodded as if he understood.

  “Is she always like that? Because she’s the only person I’ve seen who could make Devlin back off.” Meadow smiled to show she meant no harm.

  As usual, Sam didn’t smile back. “It’s easy to see where Mr. Fitzwilliam gets his strength of character.”