by Ken Casper
The woman’s face went from delight at being recognized to wariness. “The lady with the little horses.” She accepted the offered hand.
“Did you do anything at the fairgrounds this week?” Gwyn asked. “I don’t remember seeing you there. And I’m sure I would have noticed you.”
Jed had to fight to keep a straight face.
“Uh, I was out of town,” Amanda stammered.
Riley and Blair, who were just ahead of them in the line, had turned.
“Hi, Amanda,” Riley said casually. “I don’t think we’ve met.” He held out his hand to the man standing beside her.
He had the looks of a movie star. Not quite six feet tall, he was deeply tanned, with baby-blue eyes, perfect white teeth and a come-hither smile. He sported a gold stud in his left ear. Judging from his stance and proportions, Gwyn decided he was probably a body builder.
“Armand Duvalier.” He extended his right hand, revealing a heavy gold bracelet.
Introductions completed, they moved up with the line.
The poses were all the same, of course. The subjects standing next to each other in a little alcove of potted palms, behind them a cardboard sky of blue and white. Jed wrapped his arm around Gwyn’s narrow waist and rested his hand on her opposite hip. She stood modestly in place, her hands by her sides. At a word from the photographer, they looked at each other. Before they quite realized they’d made eye contact, the flash went off.
By the time they joined Riley and Blair at the punch bowl, the band had resumed playing. They watched people while they sipped from their cups.
“Tell us about Amanda,” Blair said. “Who is she? How do you know her?”
Chapter Fourteen
“RAY AND CATHERINE Jennings’s daughter,” Riley explained. “We all went to school together. She’s just returning home after her last divorce.”
“Last?” Gwyn couldn’t help asking, though on consideration, it didn’t surprise her.
Jed smirked and looked at Riley. “Is this number three or four?”
Riley wrinkled his brow. “Three, I think, unless I’ve lost count. She’s taken back her maiden name this time.”
“Any kids?” Gwyn wanted to know.
“No, thank God,” Riley responded.
“So you were in high school with her,” Blair commented. “That must have been exciting.”
Jed chortled. “Riley’ll tell you she was the femme fatale of Uncertain High.”
Gwyn could easily picture Amanda twenty years earlier in designer jeans, schoolbooks tucked below her generous, braless breasts, her eyelids shadowed in green. Had she and Jed been an item? Amanda Jennings struck her as the type of woman who could easily attract men, who enjoyed them but didn’t keep them. Which her divorce record seemed to confirm. Or was it that she lost interest in the men first? Didn’t make much difference.
They danced for another hour or so, the last number being a torturously slow rendition of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
The night air was comfortably warm and slightly damp when they bade farewell to friends and acquaintances. At Gwyn’s suggestion, Jed left the air-conditioning off, and they opened the car windows for the short drive back to her house.
“It’s been a wonderful evening, Jed. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You’re the one who made it wonderful.”
He waited to see if she would reach over and put her hand on his. She didn’t. He turned the corner onto the highway. The breeze should be cooling him, but it didn’t seem to be having that effect.
“We’ve been dancing for hours,” she commented when he finally pulled up in her driveway. “Yet I don’t feel tired.”
“Me, neither.” He escorted her along the walk to her front porch. “Your glider looks awfully inviting.” He took out his handkerchief and dusted the seat. “Would you care to join me?”
They sat side by side, not quite close enough to easily hold hands, but it wouldn’t have taken much of a shift for either of them to change that. They swung in silence, listening to the night sounds. Crickets. Bull frogs. A nightingale. An owl.
“You handled Amanda and her mother very well this evening.”
She snickered. “They were too easy, no challenge. Are you and the Jennings good friends?”
“I wouldn’t call us close,” he answered. “He was the trustee for my uncle’s estate, so after Frannie disappeared he was in a position to persuade Social Services to let me stay on at Frannie’s place until I graduated. Otherwise I might have disappeared like my foster sister, Emmy.”
Gwyn drew in her cheeks for a second before saying, “That was good of him.”
Jed emitted a soft chuckle, an acknowledgment of her sarcasm. “I know he’s not exactly a paragon of virtue, but he was a friend when the world around me seemed to be falling apart. For that, I’ll always be grateful to him. He’s been an excellent business adviser, too. He got me started investing in real estate, for example.”
“And Catherine?”
He grinned. “The queen mother? She’s really not so bad once you get to know her.”
“As long as you know how to hold your teacup.”
He slanted her an amused grin. “Ouch.”
Gwyn ran her tongue across her teeth, embarrassed at having shown her ungracious side. “Sorry, but I’ve had enough society women to last me a lifetime.”
It was the perfect opening for him to ask her about herself; what it was like to be a descendant of an old New England family and heiress to one of the world’s great fortunes. Why she was so determined to keep her identity secret. Riley was right, of course—she was entitled to her privacy. Besides, he didn’t want to bring up a subject that would spoil the rapport they were finally developing. Rapport he didn’t want to lose.
“I guess it’s time for me to come clean,” she said in a muted voice that jolted him nevertheless. “You’ve been patient, Jed, more patient than I deserve really.”
“Privacy is important to you. I understand that.”
“It is, I think, for most people, but when you grow up in a fishbowl it becomes almost sacred. Do you want something cold to drink?” She made a move to get up. “I have—”
“I’m fine.” He recognized delaying tactics.
“You want me to keep talking,” she concluded, not without humor.
“I like the mellow sound of your voice. It fits in with the velvet softness of the night.”
She grinned over at him, a twinkle beneath an uplifted brow.
With a little kick she increased the speed of the swing, not merely for the pure pleasure of it, he realized, but out of nervousness.
“What do you know about the Millers of New England?” she asked.
“That they’re bluebloods who can trace their ancestors back to the Mayflower and beyond.”
“Everyone came over in something sometime, Jed. Except maybe the Native Americans, who walked over from Siberia. What else?”
“That they’re very rich.”
“What else?”
“Let’s see. They served in the Revolutionary War.”
“Only toward the end, when they could finally read the handwriting on the wall. Until then, they’d been pro-crown, but you won’t find that mentioned in the history books. It’s a deep, dark family secret.”
“Well, at least they eventually saw the light,” he noted, but she seemed to take no consolation from the comment.
“Did you know they supported the South in the first year of the Civil War?”
That caught him by surprise. “Really? Why?”
“Do you know how the Millers made their millions?”
“Didn’t they own cotton mills?” Making the connection, he let the words trail off.
She smiled at him. “Think of something?”
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“That’s why they were pro-South.”
“The fortune my great-great-grandfather made was from exploiting immigrant labor in northern sweatshops that were producing everything from sailcloth to calico out of cotton grown in the South by slaves.”
“Ah.” He studied her. “On the other hand, your family has done a lot of good with the money since then—charitable foundations, scholarship funds, endowments to the arts and sciences. That’s a part of your heritage you can be proud of.”
“And I am proud of that aspect of it.”
“But . . .”
“Power and money corrupt.”
“Seems to me I’ve heard something like that before.”
She smiled.
“And you’re saying that your family is now corrupt,” he ventured. “Is that it?”
“Do you follow politics?”
“No more than I have to.”
She laughed this time. “Smart. It’s a dirty business.”
“I suppose it always has been. Politics, it seems to me, is a matter of compromise, and one definition of compromise is that neither side gets what it wants. Which means you have a lot of dissatisfied people.”
“Politics,” she corrected him, “is the art of convincing the other guy to compromise, often by persuasion, sometimes by intimidation, usually by manipulation.”
She sounded very disillusioned, but on that particular subject, he was inclined to be cynical, as well.
“And that’s what your father does. Gwyn, this isn’t exactly earth-shattering news. I’ve never gone along with the media’s infatuation with power moguls or believed the hype about fairy-tale kingdoms.”
Gwyn blew out a breath in frustration. How could she make him understand what she was getting at?
“When I was twenty-one, I was engaged to the son of a prominent statesman. He was almost twenty years my senior, but he had great political potential, as my father pointed out. My mother arranged everything—the big church wedding, the reception to follow and, of course, the select guest list of the politically correct people to attend. A week before the wedding, I came to my senses. I didn’t love him. He didn’t love me. We got along well enough. He had charm, education, sophistication, but he also had a reputation for enjoying female companionship. I wasn’t convinced his being married to me would change that. I talked to my mother about it. Her response was that it wasn’t important, as long as he was discreet. My father had kept a mistress for years, but my mother didn’t care. She hadn’t been completely faithful, either.”
Gwyn had finally managed to shock Jed. “Your mother told you that?”
She nodded. “A week before the wedding I broke the engagement. My parents were furious. After all, there was that mountain of presents to be returned with abject apologies. Then, of course, there was the bigger issue. I was throwing away an opportunity for social prestige and political clout. Combined with the Miller fortune, my marriage would have given them—my parents—incredible national and international leverage and power. They saw me as an object, Jed, not a person. A pawn, not a thinking, feeling human being.”
He said the only words that were appropriate under the circumstances. “I’m sorry.”
“That was thirteen years ago.” Her detached manner didn’t quite mask the pain. “I packed my bags, got in the Land Rover, which I’d bought on my own, and left the ancestral manor. I’ve been self-supporting ever since.”
“Did they cut you off? Disinherit you?”
“I disinherited them,” she said with a determination he couldn’t help but admire.
Tearing oneself away from roots that went so deep couldn’t have been easy, even in an atmosphere as hostile and perverted as the one she’d described. The temptation to bend and compromise must have been enormous, yet she’d held fast.
“Every year I contribute the earnings from my trust to charity.”
“But you could reclaim the principle at any time.”
Was he simply confirming a fact, asking a question or calling her a hypocrite? Maybe a little of all three.
“I can,” she agreed, “but I won’t.” She saw the skepticism in his eyes. “I can still be heir to the Miller fortune, too, Jed. All I have to do is go to my parents and give them my soul.”
No, she wouldn’t sacrifice her soul for money. Could she give her heart for love?
Impulsively, he did what he’d been wanting to do all evening. He reached over and skimmed his fingers along her nape, up to the base of her voluminous hair. She turned only slightly, and it seemed to him a little stiffly, yet it was enough to confirm her trust. Slowly he lifted one amber comb from her hair. The luxuriant auburn waves didn’t tumble as he’d hoped until he’d removed the second comb. Then they cascaded down in thick tresses, covering his hand with silky warmth that had him burning with need and desire.
With slow, deliberate care, he inched closer to her across the swing seat and brought his other hand up to cradle her chin between his fingers. Their eyes met. Her lips were slightly parted. Acknowledgment, anticipation and an invitation he couldn’t resist.
Their breaths mingled as he drew her against him, their eyes wide-open, transfixed on each other. He touched his lips to hers, softly, tenderly. Her arms slipped under his, and she gave herself over to the growing passion of his unhurried kiss.
Chapter Fifteen
THE KISS was lingering and luxurious. Gwyn found herself frustrated by the brittle front of his tuxedo shirt as she skimmed her hand across his chest. She should be feeling hard muscle under warm flesh, not coolly damp starch. She raised her hand to his cheek. The stubble of his dense beard rasped like sandpaper under her fingers. The heat of his skin made the sensation not unpleasant, but it definitely left her wanting more. She concentrated on his mouth, on the lips that were soft yet firm, coaxing and dangerously persuasive. He probed her mouth, searching, exploring. Shock waves rippled through her when their tongues met.
He tasted of fire and need and longing. She savored the hunger, the slow, raw melding of passion and restraint. He wanted her, but she discerned hesitation, too, as if he were apprehensive. Of her or of himself? Afraid she would back away or that he would go too far? The tension throbbed in the way he held her, close, intimately. His thigh against hers. One hand behind the column of her neck while the other stroked her chest, her breast. His touch was an exploration, an inquiry, not a demand, and it drove her heart to pounding wildly. She sensed that he still had the power to back away. It should please her, but it didn’t. She wanted him wildly reckless about her, overwhelmed by passion, not sweetly in control. Realization that at that moment she was totally under his spell frightened her. His tender embrace also made her feel like a woman cherished, not possessed, a woman respected, not used.
He broke off the kiss as slowly as he had initiated it, his lips nibbling hers as he gently pulled away. Her breathing came in little puffs, and she realized, as they looked into each other’s eyes that his did, too.
“Gwyneth.” The single word was like a prayer, a sacred hymn. He’d never used her full name before. She’d never heard it spoken with such devotion.
She stroked his cheek, wary of the sensations and the longing whirling inside her. Her experience with men was limited. Intellectually she knew intimacy had the power to captivate and possess, but emotionally it had always left her with a vague feeling of inadequacy, of letting down and being let down. Then Jed Louis had kissed her and she felt defenseless in his arms. Maybe vulnerability was what had been missing with the others.
She pulled her hand away, fearful of what might lie ahead, shaken by the temptation to surrender. Climbing to her feet, she took a step forward, establishing separation before she turned back.
“It’s been a wonderful evening, Jed—”
“But it’s getting late.” She sensed frustration and disappointment
in the way he finished the predictable sentence, but there was acceptance, too.
Better this little dashing of hopes, she thought, than bigger ones.
He rose lazily to his feet, the tautness in the line of his mouth unrelenting as he approached her. “Thank you for coming with me tonight.” He placed his hands on the edges of her shoulders and leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her lips. “We’ll have to go dancing more often.”
With the feel of his touch imprinted on her skin and her heart still tumbling, she murmured, “I’d like that.”
She watched as he walked to his car, got in and started the engine. He waved as he backed out of the driveway. “Good night,” he called as he turned onto the road to Beaumarais.
ON MONDAY MORNING, after stopping off at Haddad’s Animal Emporium for a couple of fifty-pound sacks of oats and sweet feed, Gwyn decided to stop in at the Caddo Kitchen for a quick cup of coffee. Four men, who looked as if they might be retired and hanging out to pass the time, occupied a booth in the corner by the window. Six women sat around a table in the middle of the room. One had an infant in her arms; another was gently rocking a stroller with her foot. Cassie stood over them, a coffeepot in her hand, an expression of rapt attention on her face. Her hair seemed an even brighter shade of orange-red than it had been last time—if that was possible.
Gwyn slipped onto one of the stools at the counter and waited for the waitress to notice her.
“I never read that trash,” one of the women was saying with obvious distaste.
“Oh, you should,” a second woman advised her, apparently unoffended by the first woman’s put-down. “Of course, some of it is silly. Spaceships and men from Mars. As if we didn’t have our hands full with the ones we already have here.” She huffed mischievously. “I don’t believe a word of that stuff, but it’s fun to read. Then there’re the real interesting stories about all those free-loving movie stars.”
“And the stuff those politicians who are always preaching family values do,” another woman chimed in with a giggle.