It was working, she thought drowsily as she began to experience a definite reduction of tension in her lower body.
She was working on the muscles of her backside, her eyes closed, her focus narrowed on her relaxing body when she felt the sudden leap of something onto her stomach. Startled, she opened her eyes and looked into a pair of gray ones reflecting the dying firelight.
The coyote had found her after all.
She felt the scream build somewhere in the bottom of her chest. It formed in her throat as she struck out at the intruder and encountered whisker and fur. She shrieked at full volume.
GIDEON WOKE out of a deep sleep to the sound of Prue’s scream.
He shot out of bed and raced for the stairs, flipping the light on as he passed. He skidded to a stop halfway across the living room where he found her sitting in the middle of the floor. She’d apparently fallen, her legs entangled in the bedspread. Her breath was coming quickly, her eyes wide with fear.
“What?” he demanded, his body braced for combat as he looked around for a predator.
“Something…” She pointed toward a shadowy corner, shuddering. “There!”
“A mouse?” he asked, relieved it wasn’t something bigger than he, carrying a weapon.
She took offense. “Not a mouse!” she said, clearly impatient with him. “I’m not the kind of woman who gets hysterical over a mouse. It was big!” She spread her arms about four feet apart. “And hairy! And it had whiskers!”
He tried to imagine what was that large with long hair and whiskers. There was a certain lobbyist he knew who fit that description, but he didn’t think Prue would appreciate an injection of humor at that moment.
He was confident that whatever the beast was, it couldn’t be that terrible, because the shadow she’d pointed to wasn’t more than two feet square.
“Okay,” he said calmly, hauling her off the floor and easing her onto the sofa. He picked up the bed spread and put it beside her. “Just sit tight and I’ll see what it is.”
“Be careful, Gideon,” she urged in a frightened whisper, drawing her feet up.
He went slowly toward the shadow, scanning it for shape and form, for some sign of life. When he was within several feet of it, a low gray form darted away from him toward the kitchen doorway where it stopped to arch its back and hiss at him.
It was a cat.
Granted, it was a large one, a very fluffy tabby with a big head and ridiculously wide whiskers. Its eyes were gray-green and enormous.
Gideon’s muscles relaxed and he expelled a small laugh, getting down on his haunches and stretching a hand out to try to lure the cat back.
“Oh, my gosh!” Prue said in a high, quiet voice, coming up behind him. “Poor thing! Don’t scare him.”
He glanced drily up at her over his shoulder. “You’re the one who shrieked like a banshee. Does he really look four feet wide to you?”
She got down beside him, crooning to the cat to come back. “Well, it jumped on my stomach in the dark. It was heavy and it felt really big.”
“M-m-hmm.” He humored her while he beckoned the cat.
It came halfway toward them and stopped, looking from one to the other, then came the rest of the way. But it rubbed against Gideon’s extended hand rather than Prue’s.
“Must have come in through the dog door,” Gideon said, stroking the rough, wiry fur. He supposed, in the dark, it might have felt like something big and wild. In the light, however, it was leaning into him with a vengeance and beginning to purr. “Hank said there was a cat that came with the property. It was a wanderer. This must be him.”
She reached a hand out to stroke the wide head. The cat recoiled.
She withdrew her hand, her expression grim. “Now he’ll never forgive me.”
“Unfair, isn’t it?” Gideon said with a significant look at her. He scooped up the cat and carried him into the kitchen. The cat tensed, front paws pushing against Gideon’s chest.
He put him down in a corner, then retrieved a bowl and a can of tuna. The cat reacted to the sound of the can opener, his tail going straight up as he rubbed on Gideon’s legs.
Gideon put the bowl on the floor and the cat ate hungrily.
Prue stood in the kitchen doorway, looking worriedly in the cat’s direction. “Did Hank tell you what his name was?”
“No.”
“Are you going to keep him?”
“As the story goes, he doesn’t want to be kept. He moves on and comes back when he feels like it.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the door-frame, looking from the cat to Gideon with something new in her eyes, something he didn’t understand. It seemed composed of old uncertainties and new interest.
“You and I never had a pet,” she observed, taking a few steps into the room. He noticed her silly pajamas for the first time, the way they clung lovingly to the tips of her breasts and the curve of her bottom, the flannels baggy yet somehow revealing. The wild and rumpled cloud of her hair brought back to him the fragrance of it—roses and spice. He had to look away before it made him feel weak. “Paris and I had dogs when we were growing up. I missed that.”
“We were in a condo in Albany,” he said unnecessarily because she knew that. She seemed to be trying to work out something. “Then we couldn’t have one in Maine because we weren’t there often enough. It wouldn’t have been fair.”
She nodded—then without warning, tears sprang to her eyes. He got the same feeling he’d gotten when she was falling on the mattress—the need to reach out and catch her.
But she put him off with a glance—not a rejection as much as a warning. Never one to mind warnings if he wanted to do something, he went to put an arm around her.
She resisted him for a minute, then she leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He guessed it was residual fear from the cat’s arrival in the dark that stayed with her and made her emotional. Otherwise he couldn’t explain the tears.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said against him, then pushed away. He took comfort in the fact that she seemed reluctant to do it. “You should be getting your sleep, with Aunt Georgette arriving tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you sleep in the bed,” he suggested. “And I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Because it’s your house,” she said, flattening her tumbled hair with one hand.
“Then I get to say who sleeps where.” He pointed upstairs. “Go. The bed’s very comfortable. I’ll fix a bed for the cat with a towel and one of the boxes you brought over. Go. Take the bedspread with you.”
“What’ll you cover up with?”
“I’m going to build a fire, maybe stay up for a while.” There was no way he was going back to sleep. She’d startled him into full wakefulness, with her scream and the fit of her pajamas.
She opened her mouth as though to argue further, but he threatened her with a look, at the outside edge of his tolerance.
She grabbed the bedspread and went upstairs with it.
He went to the cupboard for a brandy.
Prue couldn’t stop crying. She curled up in the middle of his bed, tightly wrapped in the blanket and bedspread, and sobbed into the pillow that carried his scent.
She was so confused. She remembered vividly the love and excitement with which she’d planned that weekend in Maine a year ago. The man downstairs was a lot like the man she’d wanted to spend that time with—the old Gideon who’d been gentle and protective and remarkably tolerant.
Then she’d walked in on him and Claudia Hackett, and lost her future. She remembered the miscarriage, the grim hospital stay and the long year of darkness that had followed.
Well, it hadn’t been all dark. She’d loved spending time with her mother and her sister. Forging ahead together had given depth to their affection for one another and changed each of them.
But Prue’s love for Gideon had been such a critical part of her. Without it her days had lost their interesting texture, their sparkle. Life had been good, but not the advent
ure it had once been.
She closed her eyes tightly and, for the first time, really tried to remember that moment when she’d opened the door to their place in Maine. She could see the hallway rug they’d bought together at a flea market, the long expanse of plank floor and creamy walls covered with the work of local artists—seascapes, bright primitives, an expressionist work she hadn’t understood but responded to anyway.
She saw a woman’s bare back and her bottom in a pair of black lace panties sitting astride Gideon’s lap on…on…a brown leather sofa. Just like the one downstairs.
No. She tried not to think of here but of there. To focus on what she’d seen. To try to remember some detail that might prove he was telling the truth when he said Claudia had thrown herself at him and he was pushing her away.
He’d been half reclined on the sofa, as she remembered, one hand holding on to the top of the cushion, the other on the woman’s breast.
Feelings of anger and betrayal burst in her all over again, but she suppressed them. She needed to remember things clearly.
The woman’s arm had been straight, as though she was pushing on Gideon’s chest. Pushing him down? Pushing him away? But what had he been doing?
Holding her breast? Holding her away? Had he just tried to push her away as she attempted to seduce him and his hand happened to connect with her breast?
She punched the pillow. She couldn’t believe that. She was obviously desperate to make it seem as though he had a defense.
So, why was she doing it?
Because, she thought wearily, she’d been so certain of what she’d seen, but his kindness now made her second-guess herself. And he’d always been an honest man. He’d been elected and served on that principle.
She pulled the bedspread over her head and tried not to think about it anymore. She had to get some sleep. Aunt Georgette was arriving tomorrow…today, now…and Prue had a role to play.
Curiously, that role had seemed easier to undertake when Gideon had been her enemy. Now that she wasn’t so sure she hated him, acting as though she loved him would be difficult and dangerous.
Just what she needed in her life. Another complication.
CHAPTER NINE
GEORGETTE FINCH-MORGAN was something to be hold. She wore Chanel—Prue recognized it right away—a Dolce Gabbana hat, Prada shoes and carried a Louis Vuitton handbag. She had a straight, silver-gray bob cut just below her ears and diamond stud earrings that had to be two karats. She was tall and elegant; her sculpted face had a few wrinkles but they were flattering in an I’ve-lived-and-learned-and-know-everything sort of way. She was followed across the very small airport terminal by a handsome, intense-looking young man in a photographer’s vest, who was hand in hand with a pretty young woman with short, bright red hair.
“Gideon!” Georgette came toward him, arms out stretched.
Gideon stepped forward to embrace his aunt. Her affection, like her smile, was lively and genuine. “It’s so good to see you, Aunt George,” Gideon said. “And a real pleasure to have you in Maple Hill.”
“Thank you, Giddy,” Georgette said, stepping back to look at him. “You look more like your father every day. He was quite the devil in his youth, you know. Your mother had to fight to keep other girls away from him when we were in college.”
Gideon laughed. “Mom’s still in fighting form. Prue, come say hello.”
Prue, who’d been standing back, trying to brace herself for the meeting and hoping her wifely attitude was in place, allowed Gideon to take her arm and draw her toward his aunt. She was immediately engulfed in an Elizabeth Arden-scented embrace.
“Prudence, you brilliant little designer, you!” Georgette grabbed her shoulders and drew her away, giving her a small shake. “I never suspected when Gideon’s mother introduced us and told me your dream was to design clothes that you had such a sense of style! I mean, I appreciate artistic expression as much as the next woman, but the day I go out in an off-the-shoulder jersey knit over striped silk harem pants is the day they walk by my coffin and say, ‘She looks just like she’s sleeping!’”
Prue laughed at the description of a design on the last cover of W.
“But your work is sophisticated and absolutely stunning. You’re going to be the next Donna Karan, there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Thank you, Aunt Georgette.” Prue had to clear her throat to give her voice some volume. “I’m flattered that you think so. And it’s so nice of you to want to do all this for me.”
Georgette put her free arm around Gideon. “I’m just so sorry that I was preoccupied at the time of your wedding. I want you to know it isn’t that I’d forgotten you.”
“You were getting married yourself at the time,” Gideon said wryly. “It’s understandable that you were distracted.”
Georgette sighed wistfully. “That Winston was such an interesting man. It’s a shame we had so little time together. We had matching Harleys, you know. Just like Liz and Malcolm.”
Prue blinked. “Liz and Malcolm?”
“Taylor and Forbes,” Georgette explained. “The actress and the entrepreneur. They were an item before he passed away.”
Prue nodded, trying to imagine Georgette on a motorcycle. Surprisingly, the picture did come into focus. She looked and behaved as though nothing was beyond her capability or daring.
Georgette freed Gideon and reached behind her to draw the young couple forward. “Prue and Gideon, I’d like you to meet Bruno Biazzi, a freelance fashion photographer, and his assistant, Justine Young.”
Prue shook hands with them, aware as Bruno took her hand that he looked her over with a vaguely dissatisfied air. Justine, though, seemed cheerful and friendly.
“You’re sure,” Bruno asked Georgette in elegantly accented English that made Prue think of prep schools and soccer fields, “that it wouldn’t be a better idea to use professional models?”
Georgette rolled her eyes as though this wasn’t the first time they’d discussed this. “No,” she said, her tone measured. “As I’ve already explained, I’m trying to do something different. I think promoting the clothes with their very beautiful designer modeling them will be attention-getting.”
He nodded, clearly unconvinced. “She’s lovely,” he said after a cursory glance at Prue, “and her hair’s great, but she’s short for—”
“Bruno,” Georgette said in that same tone. “I’m going for something different.”
“I’m just saying, if you want to really sell the clothes…”
“Bruno.” Justine tugged on his arm, trying to stop him, but he shrugged her off.
“I’m just thinking of the best outcome of this shoot.”
“I think,” Georgette interrupted, “that her romance with her handsome husband—” she indicated Gideon, who was beginning to frown at the photographer “—is going to be just the thing to sell her romantic designs.”
“He’s got everything,” Bruno agreed with that same cursory look at Gideon, “but she needs to be five-eleven, not five-three.”
“I’m five-five,” Prue put in defensively, then added to Georgette, “but if you do want to use someone…”
Georgette was shaking her head before Prue had even finished. “This is going to work. Bruno’s just too conventional in his approach to see that.” She patted Bruno’s cheek in a gesture Prue felt sure only she could have gotten away with. “I’m paying you, darling,” she said. “You have to do what I say.”
He looked troubled and annoyed for one moment, then he smiled. “Okay. I’ll get our luggage.”
Gideon went with him while Prue took Georgette and Justine to the van they’d rented that morning.
Gideon drove to the Yankee Inn where Bruno and Justine would stay. Georgette occupied the front passenger seat, Prue in the two-seater in the second row. Bruno and Justine sat in the back. Prue turned, concerned about their comfort, and found them in the middle of a serious kiss. She turned back quickly, keeping her face forward for the rest of the drive as th
e kiss went on and on.
Everyone went into the inn, Prue introducing Bruno and Justine to Jackie Whitcomb, who was working the desk. She was prepared for their arrival.
She handed them room keys and rang for a bellman to carry up their bags.
“We’ll be by to pick you up at eight in the morning,” Georgette declared. “We’ll all have breakfast, then we’ll scout out locations.” She looked to Prue and Gideon. “All right?”
“Yes,” Prue replied. “But don’t they want to have dinner with us tonight?”
Bruno and Justine leaned closer to each other. “No, thanks,” Bruno replied. “We’ll just rest up and see you in the morning. We can get something to eat here if we want to.”
Prue nodded, thinking she was grateful there wasn’t room at the house for them to stay. She’d go crazy if she had to watch them fall all over each other twenty-four hours a day.
The bellman led Bruno and Justine to the elevators, the couple gazing into each other’s eyes, their plans for the afternoon clearly written in their smoldering looks.
“I hope we can drag those two out of bed in the morning,” Gideon laughed when the elevator doors closed.
“I’ll see that they’re left a wake-up call.” Jackie jotted a note down in a book near the phone. She smiled at Prue. “We’ll get you started on time.”
Prue waved at her as they headed back to the van.
Georgette seemed pleased with her bedroom. Prue imagined her room in her London town house probably had marble columns, Palladian windows and a bed draped with curtains streaming down from a gold crest.
“I’m going to take a nap,” Georgette announced, “and when I wake up, I’m going to take the two of you for a five-course meal.”
Gideon put her bags on the bed. “Could you be happy with the best meat loaf and mashed potatoes this side of my mother’s? Not many five-course meals in the vicinity.”
She smiled. “I’m really a peasant at heart when it comes to food. I just like to dress like royalty. A little nap and I’ll be good as new.”
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