Megan's Mate tcw-5

by Nora Roberts

  She hadn't wanted to be there at all. Not at a family meeting. But she'd been summarily outvoted. The Calhouns could unite when they chose.

  As the argument swirled around her, she glanced at the object in question. When Amanda left it in her office, she'd eventually given in to temptation. After cleaning off the leather, she'd flipped through pages, idly totaling up columns, clucking her tongue at the occasional mistake in arithmetic. Of course, she'd scanned a few of the marginal notations, as well, and had found Fergus Calhoun a cold, ambitious and self-absorbed man.

  But then, a simple account ledger hardly seemed worth this much trouble. Particularly when the last few pages of the books were merely numbers without any rhyme or reason.

  She was reminding herself it wasn't her place to comment when she was put directly on the spot.

  “What do you think, Megan, dear?” Coco's unexpected question had Megan blinking.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you think? You haven't told us. And you'd be the most qualified, after all.”

  “Qualified?”

  “It's an account book,” Coco pointed out. “You're an accountant.”

  Somehow, the logic in that defeated Megan. “It's really none of my business,” she began, and was drowned out by a chorus of reasons why it certainly was. “Well, I...” She looked around the table, where all eyes were focused on her. ”I imagine it would be an interesting memento—and it's kind of fascinating to review bookkeeping from so long ago. You know, expenses, and wages for the staff. It might be interesting to see how it adds up, what the income and outgo was for your family in 1913.”

  “Of course!” Coco clapped her hands. “Why, of course it would. I was thinking about you last night, Meg, while I was casting my runes. It kept coming back to me that you were to take on a project—one with numbers.”

  “Aunt Coco,” C.C. said patiently, “Megan is our accountant.”

  “Well, I know that, darling.” With a bright smile, Coco patted her hair. “So at first I didn't think much of it. But then I kept having this feeling that it was more than that. And I'm sure, somehow, that the project is going to lead to something wonderful. Something that will make all of us very happy. I'm so pleased you're going to do it.”

  “Do it?” Megan looked helplessly at her brother. She got a flash of a grin in return.

  “Study Fergus's book. You could even put it all on computer, couldn't you? Sloan's told us how clever you are.”

  “I could, of course, but—”

  She was interrupted by the cry of a baby through the monitor on the sideboard.

  “Bianca?” Max said.

  “Ethan,” C.C. and Lilah said in unison. And the meeting was adjourned.

  What exactly, Megan wondered later, had she agreed to do? Somehow, though she'd barely said a word, she'd been placed in charge of Fergus's book. Surely that was a family matter.

  She sighed as she pushed open the doors to her terrace and stepped outside. If she stated that obvious fact, in the most practical, logical of terms, she would be patted on the head, pinched on the cheek and told that she was family and that was all there was to it.

  How could she argue?

  She took a deep breath of the scented night air, and all but tasted Suzanna's freesias and roses. She could hear the sea in the distance, and the air she moved through was moist and lightly salty from it. Stars wheeled overheard, highlighted by a three-quarter moon, bright as a beacon.

  Her son was dreaming in his bed, content and safe and surrounded by people who loved him.

  Dissecting Fergus's book was a small favor that couldn't begin to repay what she'd been given.

  Peace of mind. Yes, she thought, the Calhouns had opened the gates to that particular garden.

  Too charmed by the night to close it out and sleep, she wandered down the curving stone steps to drift through the moon-kissed roses and starsprinkled peonies, under an arbor where wisteria twisted triumphantly, raining tiny petals onto the path.

  “'She was a phantom of delight when first she gleamed upon my sight.'“

  Megan jolted, pressing a hand on her heart when a shadow separated itself from the other shadows.

  “Did I startle you?” Nathaniel stepped closer, the red tip of his cigar glowing. “Wordsworth usually has a different effect.”

  “I didn't know you were there.” And wouldn't have come out had she known. “I thought you'd gone home.”

  “I was passing a little time with Dutch and a bottle of rum.” He stepped fully into the moonlight. “He likes to complain about Coco, and prefers an audience.” He drew slowly on his cigar. For a moment, his face was misted by smoke, making it mysterious and beautiful. An angel cast from grace. “Nice night.”

  “Yes, it is. Well...”

  “No need to run off. You wanted to walk in the garden.” He smiled, reaching down to snap a pale pink peony from its bush. “Since it's nearly midnight, there's no better time for it.”

  She accepted the blossom, told herself she wouldn't be charmed. “I was admiring the flowers. I've never had much luck growing them.”

  “You have to put your heart in it—along with the water and fertilizer.”

  Her hair was down, waving softly over her shoulders. She still wore the neatly tailored blue jacket and slacks she'd had on at dinner. A pity, he thought. It would have suited the night, and his mood, if she'd drifted outside in a flowing robe. But then, Megan O'Riley wasn't the type of woman to wander midnight gardens in swirling silks.

  Wouldn't let herself be.

  The only way to combat those intrusive gray eyes, other than to run like a fool, was conversation. “So, do you garden, as well as sail and quote the classics?” she asked him.

  “I've an affection for flowers, among other things.” Nathaniel put a hand over the peony she held, and lifted it toward him so that he could enjoy its fragrance, and hers. He smiled at her over the feathered petals.

  She found herself caught, as if in some slow-motion dream, between the man and the moonlight. The perfume of the garden seemed to rise up and swirl like the breeze, gently invading her senses. Shadows shifted over his face, highlighting all those fascinating clefts and ridges, luring her gaze to his mouth, curved now and inviting.

  They seemed so completely alone, so totally cut off from the reality and responsibilities of day-to-day.

  Just a man and a woman among star-dappled flowers and moonlit shadows, and the music of the distant sea.

  Deliberately she lowered her lashes, as if to break the spell.

  “I'm surprised you'd have time for poetry and flowers, with all the traveling.”

  “You can always make time for what counts.”

  The fact that the night held magic hadn't escaped him. But then, he was open to such things. There'd been times he'd seen water rise out of itself like a clenched fist, times he'd heard the siren song of mar-maids through shifting fog—he believed in magic. Why else had he waited in the garden, knowing, somehow knowing, she would come?

  He released the flower, but took her free hand, linking their fingers before she could think of a reason he shouldn't. “Walk with me, Meg. A night like this shouldn't be wasted.”

  “I'm going back in.” She looked back up just as a breeze stirred in the air. Wisteria petals rained down.

  “Soon.”

  So she was walking with him in the fairy-lit garden, with a flower in her hand and fragrant petals in her hair.

  “I... really should check on Kevin.” “The boy have trouble sleeping?” “No, but-”

  “Bad dreams?” “No.”

  “Well, then.” Taking that as an answer, he continued his stroll down the narrow path. “Does having a man flirt with you always make you turn tail and run?”

  “I certainly wasn't running. And I'm not interested in flirtations.”

  “Funny. When you were standing out on the terrace a bit ago, you looked like a woman ready for a little flirting.”

  She stopped dead. “You were wa
tching me.”

  “Mmm.” Nathaniel crushed his cigar out into the sand of a nearby urn. “I was thinking it was a shame I didn't have a lute.”

  Annoyance warred with curiosity. “A lute?”

  “A pretty woman standing on a balcony in the moonlight—she should be serenaded.”

  She had to laugh at that. “I suppose you play the lute.”

  “Nope. Wished I did, though, when I saw you.” He began to walk again. The cliff curved downward, toward the seawall. “I used to sail by here when I was a kid and look up at The Towers. I liked to think there was a dragon guarding it, and that I'd scale the cliffs and slay him.”

  “Kevin still calls it a castle,” she murmured, looking back.

  “When I got older and took note of the Calhoun sisters, I figured when I killed the dragon, they'd reward me. In the way a sixteen-year-old walking hormone fantasizes.”

  She laughed again. “Which one of them?”

  “Oh, all of them.” Grinning, he sat on the low wall, drew her down beside him. “They've always been... remarkable. Holt had this thing for Suzanna, though he wouldn't admit it. Being as he was my friend, I selflessly crossed her off my list. That left three for me after I conquered that dragon.”

  “ But you never did face the dragon?”

  A shadow passed over his face. “I had another to deal with. I guess you could say we left it at a draw, and I went to sea.” He shook off the mood, and the uncomfortable past. “But I did have a brief and memorable interlude with the lovely Lilah.”

  Megan's eyes widened. “You and Lilah?”

  “Right before I left the island. She set out to drive me crazy. I think she was practicing.” He sighed at the memory. “She was damn good at it.”

  But they were so easy with each other, Megan thought. So relaxed and friendly.

  “You're so easy to read, Meg.” He chuckled and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “We weren't exactly Romeo and Juliet. I kissed her a few times, did my damnedest to convince her to do mote. She didn't. And she didn't break my heart. Well, dented it a little, maybe,” he mused.

  “And Max isn't bothered?”

  “Why would he be? He's got her. If we'd had a flaming affair—which we didn't—it would be a smoldering matchstick compared to what they've got.”

  He was right there. Each of the Calhoun women had found her match. “Still, it's interesting,” she said quietly. “All these connections within connections.”

  “Are you thinking of me, or yourself?”

  She stiffened, abruptly aware that she was sitting hip-to-hip with him, his arm around her. “That's not something I care to discuss.”

  “Still raw?” He tightened his arm, comforting. “From what I've heard of Dumont, I wouldn't think he'd be worth it. Settle down,” he said when she jerked away. “We'll let it go. Too nice a night to uncover old wounds. Why don't you tell me how they talked you into taking on that old account book?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Holt and Suzanna filled me in.” She was still rigid, he noted. But she wasn't running. “I saw them before they left.”

  She relaxed a little. It was comforting to discuss it with someone else who was just that small step outside the family. “I don't know how they talked me into it. I barely opened my mouth.”

  “Your first mistake.”

  She huffed out a breath. “I'd have had to shout to be heard. I don't know why they call it a meeting, when all they do is argue.” Her brows knit.

  “Then they stop arguing and you realize you've been sucked in. If you try to pull yourself out, you find they've united in this solid wall that's impossible to beat.”

  “I know just what you mean. I still don't know if it was my idea to go into business with Holt. The notion came up, was debated, voted on and approved. The next thing I knew, I was signing papers.”

  Interesting, she mused, and studied his strong profile. “You don't strike me as someone who could be talked into anything.”

  “I could say the same.”

  She considered a moment, then gave up. “You're right. The book's fascinating. I can hardly wait to get at it.”

  “I hope you're not planning on letting it take up all your free time.” He toyed with the ends of her blowing hair. No, not red, he mused. It was gold, enriched by quiet fire. “I want some of it.”

  Cautiously she inched away. “I explained to you, I'm not interested.”

  “What you are is worried because you are interested.” He cupped a hand under her chin and turned her to face him. “I figure you had a rough time, and maybe it's helped you cope to lump all men in with the bastard who hurt you. That's why I said I'd be patient.”

  Fury flared in her eyes. “Don't tell me what I am or how I've coped. I'm not asking for your understanding or your patience.”

  “Okay.”

  He crushed his mouth to hers, without any patience at all. His lips were demanding, urgent, irresistible, conquering hers before she could draw the breath to deny it.

  The embers that had smoldered inside her since the first time he'd kissed her burst into reckless flame. She wanted—craved—this flash point of feeling, this fireball of sensation. Hating herself for the weakness, she let herself burn.

  He'd proved his point, Nathaniel thought as he tore his mouth from hers to press it against the thundering pulse in her throat. Proved his point, and wrapped himself up in nasty knots of need.

  Needs that would have to wait, because she was far from ready. And because it mattered—she mattered— more than he'd expected.

  “Now tell me you're not interested,” he muttered against her lips, furious that he was unable to take what was so obviously his. “Tell me you didn't want me to touch you.”

  “I can't.” Her voice broke in despair. She wanted him to touch her, to take her, to throw her on the ground and make wild love to her. And to take the decision, and the responsibility, out of her hands. That made her ashamed. That made her a coward. “But warning's not enough.” Shaken, she pushed away, lurched to her feet. “It's never going to be enough for me. I've wanted before.” She stood trembling in the moonlight, her hair blowing free, her eyes fierce and afraid.

  Nathaniel cursed himself, then her for good measure. “I'm not Dumont. And you're not a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “I know who I am. I don't know who you are.”

  “You're hedging, Megan. We recognized each other from the first instant.”

  She stepped back, because she knew he was right. Because it terrified her. “You're talking about chemistry.”

  “Maybe I'm talking about fate.” He said it softly, as he rose. He'd frightened her, and he despised himself for it. Unnerving a woman was one thing, bullying another. “You need time to think about that. So do I. I'll walk you back.”

  She put out a hand to stop him. “I can find my own way.” She whirled and raced up the moonlit path.

  Nathaniel swore under his breath. He sat again and took out a fresh cigar, lit it. There wasn't any use heading home yet. He already knew he wouldn't sleep.

  Late the following afternoon, Megan roused herself from her ledgers when a knock sounded on her office door.

  “Come in.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Coco poked her head in the door—a head, Megan noted with surprise, that was now topped with sleek ebony hair—she apparently was a woman who changed her hair color as often as she changed moods. “You didn't break for lunch,” Coco said as she stepped through the door with a large and laden silver tray.

  “You didn't have to bother.” Megan glanced at her watch and was stunned to see it was after three. “You've got enough to do without waiting on me.”

  “Just part of the service.” After setting the tray on a table, Coco began ta arrange a place setting. “We can't have you skipping meals.” She glanced over at the computer screen, the open ledgers, the calculator and the neatly stacked files. “My goodness, such a lot of numbers. Numbers have always unsettled me. They
're so... unyielding.”

  “You don't have to let them push you around,” Megan said with a laugh. “Once you know that one and one always equals two, you can do anything.”

  Coco studied the screen doubtfully. “If you say so, dear.”

  “I've just finished up the first quarter on Shipshape. It was... a challenge.”

  “It's wonderful that you think so.” Coco turned her back on the numbers before they could give her a headache. ”But none of us want you overdoing things. Now, here's some iced tea and a nice club sandwich.”

  It did look tempting, particularly since she'd had no appetite for breakfast. A residual effect, she knew, of her encounter with Nathaniel.

  “Thank you, Coco. I'm sorry I took you away from your work.”

  “Oh.” Coco waved a dismissive hand as Megan rose to pick up her plate. “Don't give it a thought. To be frank, dear, I simply had to get out—away from that man.”

  “The Dutchman?” Megan smiled over her first bite of sandwich. “I met him this morning, when I was coming down. I made a wrong turn and ended up in the hotel wing.”

  Restless, Coco began to fiddle with the thick gold links around her throat. “I hope he didn't say anything to offend you. He's a bit... rough.”

  “No.” Megan poured two glasses of tea, offered one to Coco. “He sort of glowered and told me I needed some meat on my bones. I thought he was going to start stuffing me with the Greek omelet he was fixing, but one of the busboys dropped a plate. I escaped while he was swearing at the poor kid.”

  “His language.” Coco seated herself, smoothed down her silk trouser leg. “Deplorable. And he's always contradicting me on recipes.” She shut her eyes, shuddered. “I've always considered myself a patient woman—and, if I can be immodest for a moment, a clever one. I had to be both to raise four lively girls.” Sighing, she tossed up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “But as far as that man's concerned, I'm at my wits' end.”

  “I suppose you could let him go,” Megan said ten- tatively.

  “Impossible. The man's like a father to Nathaniel, and the children, for reasons that escape me, are terribly fond of him.” She opened her eyes again and smiled bravely. “I can cope, dear, and I must admit the man has a way with certain rudimentary dishes.” She patted her new hairdo. “And I find little ways to distract myself.”