Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  After the scene with Tinkie, there would be no chance of asking nonchalant questions of Martha. I looked over a few alligator bags, and as soon as possible slipped from the shop.

  Even Jitty was impressed with the black-beaded dress that hugged my bodice and then changed into chiffon. Short swirling chiffon.

  "Honey, that skirt hikes any higher, you'll be able to see possible."

  "In this dress, anything is possible," I answered her. The shoes were absolutely perfect. The heels were tall, a slender silhouette that widened to a square at the base. Offbeat and perfect for dancing. I checked the backs of my legs in the mirror to make sure the seams of my hose were straight. After all, Harold had said daring.

  "What are you up to?" Jitty asked, walking around me three times in a circle like some wicked stepmother about to turn my coach into a pumpkin.

  "I'm working," I said. "On several fronts."

  "You workin' on messing up your meal ticket. If Tinkie gets a whiff of the fact that you've got the hots for Hamilton, you're gone get fired. And if Harold finds out you've got ulterior motives, he just might take that ring back, along with the marriage invitation."

  Jitty had a point. For a split second, I let myself acknowledge the gamble I was taking. Then I caught a glimpse of those damn shoes in the mirror, and I knew that I was holding some awfully good cards. These were shoes that could conquer an entire civilization. What were two mere men?

  "I'll give you a full report," I promised Jitty as I palmed my car keys and headed into the Delta night.

  14

  It was a dazzling November evening, the last of the month, and I turned into Harold's drive with strategies whirling in my head. Although I had resisted much of Aunt LouLane's training in the art of feminine wiles, I did learn one important thing—the aura of desirability is created first in the mind of the woman.

  I've seen women working in the cotton fields, their clothes soaked with sweat and hair plastered to their foreheads. But when a good-looking man drove by, they smiled. They were aware of their femininity, of the power of being female, and neither sweat nor dirt nor bare feet could detract from their sexuality. They generated sexy from the inside out, and the men responded.

  My mind was on these things as I turned into Harold's long, oak-lined drive. Suddenly a million twinkling white lights dazzled my eyes. My foot jumped onto the brake, and the Roadster hunkered down and held the road as it skidded to a stop.

  I was awestruck at what Harold had wrought. Fairy lights followed the graceful limbs of the huge oaks that canopied the drive. The effect was spectacular. I suddenly wanted to forgo the party and all of the attendant intrigues to simply sit beneath the canopy of winter stardust.

  But there was work to be done, and I parked at the end of the line of cars and headed to the house.

  There is an art to the entrance of a single woman into a party. It is timing and attitude—and dress. I had designed myself for a dramatic entrance, and I intended to see that I got my full due. To that effect I had tucked a few old cherry bombs into my spangled evening bag. I waited for a few stragglers to go inside. As I got on the porch, I lit one of the cherry bombs and threw it into the hydrangeas beside the steps.

  Counting the seconds, I rang the doorbell, pushed the door open, and—kaboom! Dead hydrangea leaves fluttered behind me like confetti. After a few squawks and shrieks, everyone in the room turned to the door. There was an appreciative intake of breath from the men and a glare from the women, and I knew my strategy was doubly successful. Harold's face showed his sincere appreciation, and Kincaid Maxwell looked pissed.

  There was one other reaction I sought, but Hamilton Garrett the Fifth was not in evidence. Disappointment did not begin to describe what I felt.

  Harold was immediately at my side, his proprietary hand on my elbow as he steered me into the room. Kincaid was first in line to greet me, and she shifted so that I was cut off.

  "Now I understand why you failed in your stage career," Kincaid whispered in the required act of an air kiss. "Dramatic special effects won't ever cover up weak character development."

  "Oh, Kincaid," I whispered back, "you look lovely tonight. But how do you get your eyeliner so straight when you don't cast a reflection in the mirror?" Kincaid and I are not bitter enemies, but there is no love lost between us. The breach stems back to our junior play, when I got the lead and she told everyone it was because the drama teacher pitied me since I was an orphan.

  She stepped back and away. "Chas!" she called out loudly. "Get Sarah Booth a drink, darling. Some of the good Scotch, since she can't afford it anymore. It'll be such a special treat."

  So, my financial woes were common knowledge. All of my hiding out and avoiding my peers had done no good. Well, there was a certain freedom in not having to pretend. "Make it a double, Chas," I said airily, when I felt someone staring at me. It was one of those fully aware sensations. I turned quickly and found myself impaled on Hamilton Garrett the Fifth's direct gaze. He was standing beside a bronze sculpture—a female torso of great sensuality. Beside the work of art, Hamilton was a powerful presence, and I was viscerally reminded of our earlier meeting and the glowing pink woman of glass in his foyer.

  His green eyes held me, and I felt my skin chill and then flush warm. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. He advanced toward me, one hand brushing the naked hip of the sculpture in a gesture that made me tremble. Harold turned to me, a question in his light blue eyes.

  "Miss Delaney," Hamilton said, stepping forward. "I didn't expect to see you here."

  Harold cast me a shrewd look. "You two know each other?"

  "Miss Delaney came to interview me," Hamilton said in a clear, deliberate voice. "I'm afraid she caught me at a bad time. I treated her rudely, and I want to offer an apology."

  I wanted to catch him in a bad place and hurt him. There was no hint of malice on his face or in his tone. Only his eyes gave away the pleasure he was having—at my expense.

  "No, it's I who owe you an apology," I said quickly. "I should have called and requested an appointment. It was rude of me to appear on your doorstep."

  "What kind of interview were you conducting?" Harold asked, plainly curious about this unexpected turn.

  "Didn't you know Miss Delaney works for the Dispatch?"

  Hamilton was having too good a time, and I was finding it strangely difficult to breathe.

  "Sarah Booth?" Harold said.

  A convincing lie did not immediately present itself to my mind. "I may have misrepresented myself," I said slowly, making the artless, mischievous face of a female caught in a harmless fabrication. "I thought if I could get a good society scoop, Cece might give me a job." I sobered as I looked at Hamilton, hoping to destroy him with a surfeit of truth. "If you haven't heard already, I'm destitute. If I don't come up with some money, I'm going to lose Dahlia House." For an unguarded second, there was surprise in his eyes.

  "So now you know the entire sordid story." I shrugged. The gesture made the chiffon swirls of my skirt shimmer, and I saw Hamilton's eyes flicker down, then back up to mine.

  "I admire a person who takes a gamble," he said with his relentless gaze trained on me. "The problem with taking risks is that sometimes you can't afford to lose. My advice to a desperate gambler is to get up from the table."

  Hamilton's words, though spoken in the easy tone of party chatter, were a threat. I knew it, and he knew it. But I didn't want Harold to catch the undertone. I smiled and nodded. "I'm certain your words are wise, Mr. Garrett, but I have a different view. When the only act left is one of desperation, then you have to put your whole heart into it." I gave it a slight pause. "An interview with you was a long shot. No damage done."

  "Then we both survived your gamble without injury." He picked up my hand. "Perhaps I'll revise my opinions on gamblers and make a new category for one with such incredible charm." He bent low over my hand, his lips brushing my skin, and then excused himself.

  Harold watched him go with a frown
. "He's very different now," he said slowly. "Bitter."

  "Will you do business with him?" I asked, remembering Tinkie's talk at the dress shop.

  "The bank wants his business, but no one is certain he'll stay in Zinnia. He returned here out of the blue, and there's every chance he'll disappear again in a matter of weeks."

  As Harold took my arm and steered me toward the dining room, where candles glowed and food that looked both festive and delicious crowded the long banquet table, I wondered if that last remark was calculated, or simply an innocent comment.

  Harold fed me a curried shrimp, smiling as I licked my lips. "You didn't tell me about the newspaper job," he said.

  "I thought if I got a great interview, I might be able to talk my way into working with Cece." I wanted to work for the newspaper about as much as I wanted to have the chicken pox a second time.

  "I know the publisher. I could speak to him on your behalf," Harold said.

  "No, don't you dare!" I saw the surprise in his eyes. "I mean, no, thank you. Let me see what I can do on my own."

  Harold's smile held a degree of pride. "You are remarkable. You don't want me to use my influence to help you get a job. You want to get it on your own merits. I'd be careful, Sarah Booth, or the other women in your set are going to get very, very angry with you."

  He was right. I was betraying my gender and my class. It was not a step to take lightly.

  "And Hamilton isn't someone to play with," Harold cautioned.

  "Why? Because he's accused of murdering his mother?" I asked, hoping to get Harold's reaction to the charge.

  "No, because he did kill his mother," Harold answered smoothly.

  I was shocked at Harold's blase attitude, but there was no time to question him further. A cluster of women descended on us and I was trapped at his side.

  Harold had claimed me as his hostess, and as such there was little I could do except smile, nod, and reply to the endless banter. At another time, I might have enjoyed the opportunity to shock, engage, or malign. But my mind was on Hamilton, and though I tried to be subtle, my gaze followed him.

  He made the circuit of the party, smiling, shaking hands, accepting the women's kisses on his cheek, undressing the pretty ones with a practiced eye. On occasion, he would look my way and I'd feel as if he'd touched someplace private and not very nice.

  After half an hour, Hamilton strolled from the dining room and disappeared. It was the way he looked to left and right that made me realize he was up to something. Excusing myself from Harold, Mrs. Carruthers, and Augusta Langford with the excuse that I would check on the canapes, I slipped into the kitchen and out the back door. Hamilton had gone out the front, and I eased into the protection of the camellia bushes that grew beside the house and made my way toward the front porch.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke enveloped his head as he sat in a wicker chair, alone. He'd had the good sense to grab his coat, something I hadn't been able to do. Rubbing my arms up and down, I waited. When he glanced at his watch and stood, I knew my instincts were right. He walked toward the gardens.

  I followed, ducking beneath a huge magnolia tree and stepping carefully to avoid the fallen pods. I slipped from shadow to shadow, following him, aware that I was moving deeper into darkness and farther away from the women's laughter that chimed and rang amid the hearty conversations of the men.

  Harold's big yard was bounded by a yew hedge, and I pressed myself into the green wall of shrubbery just in time to hear a man speaking on the other side.

  "I know the truth," the man said. Strong emotion distorted his pronunciation. "I know what Sylvia's been trying to—"

  "Stay away from my sister!" Hamilton warned.

  "It's too late for that," the man said, his tone edgy. "She may be crazy, but she isn't stupid. To think what she's done to herself. You have to believe—"

  "I don't have to believe anything. Sylvia surrendered to the past a long, long time ago," Hamilton said. "She has her imagination." I caught the scent of cigarette smoke.

  "Imagination!" The man laughed. "If you have doubts, why did you come back?"

  "My sister left me no choice." Hamilton's voice was cold. "What's your excuse for being drawn into this?"

  "You weren't the only one who lost his father." There was a pause, and when the other man spoke again, some of the anger was gone. "You should sell the estate. Once this is over, clear out."

  "Knob Hill is my heritage. Show me your proof."

  There was the sound of paper unfolding and rustling. "Your sister had this," the man said with expectation.

  "My God," Hamilton whispered, excitement in his voice.

  "I thought you'd find it interesting."

  "Where—"

  At the sound of a female calling, they broke off.

  "Hamilton! Hamilton Garrett, you bad boy, are you out here smoking?"

  I closed my eyes in disbelief, but it was truly Tinkie. I saw her standing, backlit, on the front porch of Harold's house. She came down the steps and stopped at the edge of light, as if she were afraid to step into the darkness.

  "Hamilton, are you out there?"

  Before I could move, Hamilton brushed past the hedge and crossed the open space. He went to Tinkie.

  "I can't believe you're home," she said softly.

  "It's been a long time," he answered, in a voice completely different from the one he'd used only moments before.

  I held my breath, praying that neither of them would decide to have a tryst in the garden.

  "Are you home for good?" she asked. To her credit, she was keeping her feelings well hidden. This could pass for casual party chatter.

  "Tinkie, you're freezing," Hamilton said, taking off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. "Let me escort you back inside." With his arm around her, they walked onto the porch and were blocked from sight by the camellia bushes. I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he bent down to kiss those pouty lips of hers.

  I kept very still in the hedges, listening for the other man. When I heard his footsteps echoing emptily on the cold sidewalk, I counted to fifty and then crept out of the hedge. The only evidence of the meeting was a cigarette butt. Marlboro. Clinging to shrubs and shadows, I hurried to the back door.

  The warmth of the party hit me like a fist, and I picked up a glass of champagne and drank half of it. The caterers were staring at me, so I slipped through the door into the dining room. Trying to slide along the wall, I was intent on finding Hamilton and Tinkie and avoiding Harold. I finished the champagne and was looking for a place to put the glass when I noticed Hamilton's coat dumped in a corner.

  It was a long shot, but I picked it up as any good hostess would do and started toward the bedroom where Harold had put the guests' coats and purses. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I locked it.

  The coat was wool and smelled of cigarettes and Hamilton. My hands were shaking as I began to go through it. In the right front pocket I found a page torn from a magazine. I sat down on the bed amid the coats and examined what appeared to be part of a story about a gallery in California that was exhibiting jewelry.

  There were photographs of several pieces, all of them created from gold, enamel, and semiprecious stones. The materials were not that expensive, but the craftsmanship was interesting. The article was about the designer Rene Lalique, a Frenchman. Though I read it twice, there was nothing significant in it. I put it aside and began to search for something else.

  A loud pounding on the door made me jump, and I jammed the article back in the pocket and rushed to open the door. Hamilton stood there. He hesitated when he saw me. "Why are you always where no one expects to find you?" he asked.

  "I'll tell you," I said, trying to hide my flush, "when you tell me why you've suddenly decided to return to Zinnia."

  He stepped toward me so quickly that I almost backed away. Almost.

  "I get the impression you're a very curious woman," he said, so softly that it might have been an endearment. His hand reached out a
nd caressed my cheek. "Just remember that prying is a dangerous occupation." He picked up his coat and left, closing the door behind him so softly that the latch barely bumped into place.

  15

  When I returned to the party, Harold was in the library in the middle of a group of men. I made the rounds of the women in the parlor and dining room, fully aware that the segregation of the sexes foretold a certain stage in the evening. I fortified myself with a quick glass of champagne, replaced the empty with a full one, and circulated, never staying long enough to answer serious questions. I passed through conversations just as Jitty drifted through walls. Hamilton the Fifth absorbed me, though I did the best I could not to show it.

  He was a dark force, and no matter how much I tried to deny it, he affected me. As Jitty had so aptly pointed out, this was not a good thing. In a Delaney woman, when the womb overrides the brain, calamity is sure to follow.

  I was about to join Tinkie, whose state of inebriation and smile could both be described as plastered, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My Hamilton bruises tingled dangerously before I turned to find Cece grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  "You were alone with Hamilton in the bedroom," she said eagerly. "What's the scoop?"

  My, news traveled fast. "He doesn't like desperate gamblers."

  "Are you developing a relationship with him?" Cece's smile suddenly looked as false as her eyelashes.

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "Sarah Booth, you're not up to anything, are you?"

  "I'm always up to something," I said on a bright note.

  "This book you're writing." Her dark eyes seemed to deepen, and I was aware that I was dealing with a dangerously perceptive person. Cece had the intuition and wiles of a woman, but the added dividend of male logic. "You don't have a personal bone to pick, do you?"

  It occurred to me that Cece had been goaded into wondering about my book. "Why do you ask?"

  "Delo Wiley came by the paper yesterday afternoon."

  Her revelation was startling, but I couldn't afford to show it. I was beginning to catch on to the fact that a good PI revealed as little as possible about everything. "I didn't know you worked on Saturday," I parried.