by Diana Palmer
She smiled. “He never was, I imagine. What’s Fayre like?”
“Blonde, beautiful, and expensive, just like the ones before her. She’s the latest in a string.” Her narrow eyes studied the young, blond sapling on the stairs. “You make him keep his distance, young lady,” she said suddenly. “Don’t let him hurt you. He can, you know. You’re just a baby.”
Dana blushed. “You must know why he had me sent here,” she murmured, “and how much contempt…”
“I know what he says,” Lillian corrected. “The Mister’s deep, and nobody can read him, not even me and I’ve been here eighteen years. But I think he sent for you for more than just a chance to get even. Be careful.”
“You don’t need to tell me that he’s dangerous,” Dana said quietly, turning toward the stairs. “He cost me my job and my peace of mind, and now he’s going to keep me in bondage for six months. I’ll bet in his spare time he teaches ants how to torture their aphids.”
Lillian tried to stifle a giggle and failed. “Just the same,” she said, sobering, “it’s strange to me that he waited this long for vengeance.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing that for a long time.” She gave Lillian a smile and started up the steps. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”
Dana almost laughed at that. It had been months since she’d slept well. Months…
She was in the middle of a business letter the next morning when the phone rang. She answered it absently, her mind on the letter and a clipped voice replied.
“Let me speak to Adrian,” it said shortly.
“He isn’t here right now,” she replied in a businesslike tone. “May I take your number and have him return the call?”
“I’m just passing through,” the voice said after a slight hesitation. “My name’s Dick Black—you may have heard him mention me, we were in Vietnam together. Gosh, I hate to leave town without saying hello, we shared a hooch and dodged bullets together!”
Dana hesitated. If she let his old buddy leave town without trying to get in touch with her boss, she knew she was going to catch it from both sides.
“Here,” she said abruptly, “let me give you his number at the office, and you can contact him there.”
“Hey, thanks, you’re a pal!” came the cheerful reply.
It was only after she hung up that she remembered the old warning he hadn’t bothered to reemphasize. Never, but never, give out his private number at work to anyone. But, she reminded herself, Dick Black wasn’t anybody, surely. An old war buddy did have some privileges, didn’t he? She went back to the letter she was typing and forgot about it.
It had been a busy day, and she was just finishing up when the front door opened with a violent snap. She tensed at the heavy, angry footsteps in the hall and turned just in time to meet a pair of slitted, glittering eyes in a face like thunder.
Adrian Devereaux slammed his attache case down flat on his big oak desk. With one hand deep in his pocket, he stood studying her grimly.
“Do you enjoy getting under my skin, Meredith?” he asked in a voice gone soft, almost tender in his fury. “Do you lay awake nights thinking up ways to annoy me?”
She swallowed nervously, clutching her skirt in her fingers. “What have I done?” she asked, uneasily.
“What the hell do you think?” he growled, slamming his hand down palm first on the surface of the desk. “Are you working with the wire services on the side, or was that newsman some old friend you owed a favor to?”
“I…you know I’m not working for anybody except you,” she returned. “What newsman?”
“Good old Dick Black,” he shot at her.
She covered her mouth. “Oh, no,” she breathed.
“Oh, yes, and you needn’t pretend you didn’t know! Damn you, Meredith, I could shake you until your teeth break!” he said hotly, glaring at her. “If I told you once, I told you a half-dozen times to never, never give out my office number!”
“I know,” she whispered, “but he said…”
“To hell with what he said!” He glared at her across the desk, his face stony, his eyes like slits of fire. She felt her knees give way under the cut of his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears welling involuntarily in her eyes. The strain was getting to her—his hatred, worrying about her mother, the nightmares…
He froze, as if the reply wasn’t the one he’d been expecting. “What?”
She turned away, fighting for composure, shaking her head as if to dismiss her reply.
“Meredith?” His voice was deeper than usual, quiet.
She drew herself together and let her eyes drift up to his collar, but no further. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
There was a pause while he lit a cigarette. Her eyes went to his heavily-lined face as he perched himself on the edge of the desk, and shot a glance at her.
“I want to give a party this weekend,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “At the cabin, for about twelve couples. Arrange it. Supper and snacks and booze.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want the caterer you used last…”
“Yes. And don’t forget the music.”
“A live band?”
He glared at her. “Of course, Meredith, a live one.”
She flinched inwardly at the sarcasm and made herself a note on her steno pad, no outward sign of her emotional turmoil showing. That seemed to light a fire under his temper.
“I’ll give you a list of the guests later,” he said in a voice that had suddenly chilled. “You’re to call each one, individually, and confirm their attendance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cool, aren’t you?” he asked harshly. “Does anything touch you? Do you feel?”
“I feel what I have to,” she replied calmly, determined not to let him see her lose that hard won composure. She stood up, pale and drawn, but outwardly quite unruffled. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, damn you, that’s all,” he said in a harsh whisper.
She walked out with her head high, the tiny triumph bringing a smile to her lips as she went.
She hid in the kitchen with Lillian while waiting for him to calm down.
“Bad, huh?” Lillian asked with a conspiratorial whisper and with a smile.
Dana nodded. “Oh, he can be such a…”
“Don’t say it, I get the general idea. Sit down, honey, and talk to me while I get dinner.”
Dana dropped onto one of the chairs and sat with her chin in her hands, dejected and miserable. “He’s a beast.” She got up and went to the cupboard, taking out a cup.
“There’s a reason,” Lillian said quietly, eyeing Dana while she rolled a piecrust, her brown hands flecked with flour and dough. “He’s so alone.”
“We all are,” Dana said absently, her eyes blank on the shimmering black coffee as she poured herself a cup of the steaming brew and sat back down. “Every one of us.”
“Not like he is.” Lillian picked up the pie tin and a sharp knife, and trimmed the excess pastry away in a neat motion. “And I don’t mean just since the Missus died. She hated him. Hated his job, hated his hobbies, hated his civic work…she was jealous of him. If you’d worked here while she was still alive, she’d have made life hell for you. She drove him wild with her jealousy. You know,” she said solemnly, setting down the pie crust to study Dana, “she used to call restaurants where he’d be entertaining clients, to see who he was with. She was always checking up on him.”
Dana nodded. “I remember hearing you talk about it, years ago. He…he was a very attractive man, I don’t suppose she could help being jealous if she loved him.”
“That’s the whole point, she didn’t,” Lillian said gruffly. “She didn’t care if he died, but she was scared he’d find some other woman and kick her out. She liked the money, the clothes, the fancy cars. She liked her life, and didn’t have any notion of changing it.”
�
��But she had lovers…”
“Only the one who killed her,” Lillian recalled. “He was special, but when the Mister told her to give him up, she didn’t give it a second thought. They said that was why her lover killed her, because she was breaking it off. She’d given him God knows how many expensive things, including a car…the trial cut the Mister apart,” she said, shaking her head. “It ripped his pride to shreds, but I never heard him say a word about it. Not one word. He buried it inside.”
Something else for him to blame me for, Dana thought miserably. To lose his fortune and his pride at the same time would have been a blow few men could have borne. But Adrian Devereaux was a breed apart, and nothing could bring him to his knees.
“He loved her?” she murmured absently.
“Honey, you can’t live with someone for thirteen years and not feel anything when they die,” Lillian said with a patient smile. “I think he had to feel something for her. She was a very beautiful woman, and she could be charming. But she sure didn’t care about him. Wouldn’t even give him children—she was afraid they’d ruin her figure.”
“Maybe he didn’t want them,” she murmured.
Dana felt those wise eyes on her. “He wanted them. There’s a child-hunger in that man. He wants an heir. But,” she added coolly, “he needn’t think this new girl’s going to give him one! She likes her girlish figure, too, for all that her girlhood years are behind her,” she mumbled cattily.
“Is she his age?”
“Just about.” Lillian smiled. “You’re a baby compared to both of them. You steer clear of the dragon, honey, she’ll burn you to a cinder.”
“I can’t. He’s getting me up a list of people to invite to a party on the lake this weekend. I’ll just bet her name’s at the top of the list.”
“God love you, child,” Lillian sighed. She poured the apple mixture into her pie shell and laid the second crust on top, pinching the edges together in a pretty fluted pattern. Just as Dana’s mother used to do, years ago, before…
“He hates me, you know,” she told Lillian, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with one long, slender finger.
“Why?” Lillian asked quietly. “If you hadn’t written that story, somebody else would have. And if something’s meant to happen, young one, it will.”
“You’re a fatalist.”
“You betcha. The Mister hates what happened, but I don’t think he’d carry a grudge that far that long,” she said firmly, wiping her hands. She opened the oven door and shot the pie in, closing it gently. “He’ll get over it.”
“I should live so long,” Dana murmured, pushing her taffy-colored hair back into her bun. “He’s got me for six months, and I promise I’ll pay for sins I haven’t even thought of committing before he’s through with me. He can be so ruthless, Lillian.”
“And so blind.”
Dana met the older woman’s sharp eyes. “Blind?” she echoed.
Lillian returned her attention to the remains of the pie crust and began to clean it up. “Tell me what you’ve been doing for the past three years.”
“If I can have another cup of coffee, I’ll give you all the inside gossip about that society murder in Miami earlier this month.”
“The one where the main suspect was found dead with his mistress?” Lillian asked, wide-eyed.
“The very same.”
“Here,” she said, handing Dana the coffee pot. “And I’ll throw in a homemade sweet roll. Start talking.”
Three
She got through the week, but her nerves were almost in shreds by the end of it. Confirming those miserable invitations had been an inhuman test of her temper. The men liked her husky voice and wanted to flirt. The women wanted to know why “Adrian” wasn’t extending personal invitations, and who was Dana? But the dragon was the worst of all. The very worst.
“Hello,” the reply came when Dana reached Fayre Braunn’s residence, in a voice like silk and honey.
“Miss Braunns, I’m calling for Adrian Devereaux,” Dana said in the pat speech she’d rehearsed. “He’d like you to join him at a party on the lake Saturday night about seven. He’ll pick you up at your apartment at six.”
“Who are you?” Fayre asked haughtily, all the silk and honey turning bitter.
“I’m Dana Meredith, Mr. Devereaux’s private secretary.”
“Well, well, he hasn’t mentioned you. How long have you worked for him?”
“A week, Miss Braunns. Will you attend the party?”
“Oh, good heavens, of course I will! How old are you, Miss Meredith?” the voice purred.
“Eighty-six. And a half,” she added tartly. “I’ll tell Mr. Devereaux you’ll be ready. Goodbye.” She hung up on the gasp at the other end of the line. Her chest rose in an agitated sigh. She knew she’d catch hell for that piece of effrontery, but she didn’t regret it. Not one little bit.
She didn’t regret it until she heard him come into the den, and turned and saw the familiar black anger written all over his heavily lined face.
“You, madam,” he said levelly, “are pushing your luck over a cliff. I’ve just spent the past hour calming a very irritated tigress who seems to have the idea that I’m harboring a kept woman!”
“If you mean the dra…I mean, Miss Braunns,” she corrected quickly, “she was more interested in interrogating me than she was in accepting…”
“I don’t give a damn. If she wants to know the color of your pajamas, Meredith, you tell her!” His eyes narrowed, glittering down as he stood over her at the desk. “By God, you’re an employee here, not the mistress of the house dispensing invitations!”
She felt every muscle in her body contract at the icy attack, and it took every bit of will power she possessed to keep her composure. “Excuse me, I didn’t realize that the job involved selling my pride as well.”
“It involves whatever I say it involves. You were rude, Miss Priss, and deliberately.” His jaw set. “Never again, do you understand me? Or I’ll set you down in a way you’ll grow old trying to forget!”
She raised her face, a calm expression pasted to it. “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir. I’m very sorry sir.”
His hands clenched into huge fists on the surface of the desk, the knuckles going white. He drew a heavy, harsh breath and turned away, going to stand at the window with his hands jammed into his pants pockets.
“I’ve never known a woman who could get under my skin the way you do,” he growled. “God, you make me want to do something violent…!”
“If I were a man, you’d hit me, wouldn’t you?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Then, I’m very glad I’m not a man, Mr. Devereaux, because I don’t imagine you pull your punches.”
He glanced at her hotly. “I don’t. Any more than you pull yours.” He studied her pale face. “Just how deep does that veneer of composure go, Meredith?” His lips narrowed. “One day, I’m going to strip you out of it and see what’s underneath.”
She avoided his eyes and rose from the desk. “I’m through for the day. Do you mind if I help Lillian in the kitchen, sir?”
He hesitated. “Hell, go ahead.” He lit a cigarette. “Don’t tell me cooking’s among your many talents?”
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m very good with hemlock and toadstools,” she said quietly.
“No doubt.” He didn’t say another word as she left.
Supper was frigid. Utterly frigid. She’d tried to take refuge in the kitchen with Lillian, but he wouldn’t hear of that. With a thread of pure anger in his deep voice, he’d practically ordered her to his table. And watched her relentlessly while she picked at her food.
“If you don’t eat,” he said finally, leaning back in the chair to watch her through narrowed eyes, “I’ll feed you myself.”
Her head jerked up and her lips started to form words.
“Oh, hell, yes, I will,” he said, anticipating her protest. “You’ve lost at least three pounds since you’ve been here. I want a healt
hy secretary, Meredith, not a sickly scarecrow, do you understand me? Now, eat!”
She lifted the food to her lips with numb fingers, barely tasting the perfectly seasoned rice, the deliciously tender veal. Not, “I’m concerned about you, take care of yourself”—but, “I need your services, stay well.” Damn him, he didn’t have an ounce of kindness in his whole body, she thought, hurting from the onslaught. She finished her dinner, drank her coffee, and finally escaped to the kitchen where she spent the rest of the evening with Lillian.
She had started up the stairs to bed when, on an impulse she went out the door instead and into the garden.
It was a warm, spring night, and the scent of white roses was everywhere. In the pale moonlight, they seemed to glow, a delicate fantasy of beauty spreading over the gentle slope of the lawn in manicured perfection. She paused on the brick walk-way and touched one of them, pressing it to her cheek as she inhaled the sweet fragrance.
“Looking for unicorns, Meredith?”
She jumped, startled by the deep, curt voice, and pricked her finger on a thorn as she turned to see the master of the house standing a few feet behind her. His jacket and tie were gone and his shirt was open halfway down that massive chest, revealing bronzed skin and a mat of black, curling hair. His dark slacks hugged his narrow hips and his powerful legs as he stood, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette. His whole posture was threatening.
“I…I don’t believe in unicorns anymore, Mr. Devereaux,” she said in a thin voice, touching the pricked finger to her lips, amazed that he’d remembered that long-ago conversation…
“You used to,” he said quietly. “We stood here in the garden and talked about myths, and I told you I was past the age of believing in them. And you said that you did.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Three years?” He drew the cigarette to his broad, chiseled mouth. “Long enough. Has reporting made you cynical, little girl? Has it made you bloodless, painless, invulnerable?”