“Lillian.” He greeted his guest. “This is unexpected.”
“Yes. Will you invite me in?”
“Of course.” Dylan stepped to the side and indicated with a sloppy wave of his arm she should precede him into the room.
“I’ll have one of those.” She tipped her head toward the glass he held in his hand. “And you can tell me what has you drinking alone this evening.”
Dylan shut the door after Lillian swept past him and then went to fix her a drink, topping his off before joining her. She was sitting on the couch he had vacated, her legs tucked up next to her. He handed her the glass and then turned to sit in a facing chair. He leaned toward her, elbows on knees, his drink cradled in his fingertips.
“What brings you out here?”
“No, first you must answer my question.”
“Was there a question?”
“Yes. What has you drinking alone? Or should I ask whom?”
Dylan paused in bringing the glass to his lips for another swallow to look up over the rim at Lillian, one eyebrow arched. She stared back at him, an unassuming smile curving her lips.
“A very long day,” he muttered before tipping his glass.
“I see.”
“You couldn’t possibly.” He shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter. What brings you into the city so late?”
“Actually, I’m on my way home. I’ve been in town since early afternoon.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I had errands. Some things Mr. Bennett wanted me to attend to and a visit with a new friend.”
“How very nice for you,” Dylan drawled sarcastically leaving no doubt he well understood the word “friend” needed quotation marks around it.
Her indulgent gaze went cold and hard, freezing the condescending smirk on his face.
“That is not your first or second drink,” she said tightly.
“Or my third. But tonight I’m not counting.”
Lillian leaned forward, placing her glass on a silver coaster on the corner of the coffee table in front of her. Then she stood and plucked the tumbler out of his hand.
“What the hell?” he yelled as she turned and disappeared from the room. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Dylan put his hands up to his head. His shouting was giving him a god-awful headache. Pressing his palms into his eye sockets, he pushed back in his seat and let his head loll back.
Some amount of time must have passed because the next thing he knew there was a small pressure at his shoulder urging him awake, the smell of coffee strong in his nose. He lifted his head and squinted open his eyes. Lillian smiled at him brightly, a steaming mug in each hand.
“We must talk.”
“Must we?” Dylan took the cup from Lillian and straightened in his chair.
“Yes.” She retook her place across from him. “The new friend I was visiting was Ms. Shore.”
Dylan flinched. He looked into the cup he held in both hands taking a tentative sip of the hot brew, stalling for time.
He did not want to discuss Morgan with Lillian. The woman was far too astute for him to hide his feelings from her, too dogged to let him get away with half-truths or self-delusions and too candid not to call him on any bullshit he might try to offer.
“How is she?”
“Wondering why you are avoiding her.”
He looked up. “What?”
“You are avoiding her and shirking your responsibilities to the Field Foundation.”
“I’ve fulfilled all of my obligations toward the Foundation.”
“Except for meeting with its director.”
Dylan had no answer. Fitfully, he took a swig of coffee. It burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth, but he hardly noticed because Lillian’s piercing scrutiny was much more stinging. Regardless, he continued to sit in stony silence.
“What happened between the two of you the morning Mr. Field’s will was read?”
“How the hell…?” Dylan bristled. “Morgan told you?”
“Yes,” Lillian said calmly. “She is confused and frightened. She needed to talk to someone.”
“How fortunate my former lover was available,” he retorted.
“What happened?” she repeated stubbornly.
“I lost control.” On seeing Lillian’s eyes widen in surprise, he laughed. “Now you know why I’ve been staying away from her.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“No? You can’t want me unleashed on your…What do you call her…sorella?”
“‘Unleashed,’” she scoffed. “You speak as if you’re some kind of animal.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Darling, you dominate your lovers. You are far from being some sort of monster.”
Dylan shrugged and brought the mug to his lips once more.
“Why are you making this so complicated?” she prodded. “You want her and she wants you.”
“She told you that?” Dylan interjected.
“She didn’t have to. You know she wants you.”
He remembered the way Morgan had tightly wound her legs around his waist when he’d caught her up in his arms. A small groan escaped him.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s complicated.”
“Only because you are making it complicated.”
“Goddamn Lillian, are you telling me you’ve slept with every man you’ve ever wanted?”
“As long as they were interested.”
“Out of curiosity, has anyone ever refused you?”
“Only you, darling.”
“I’m sorry if I disappointed you,” he said with mock deference, “and, at the risk of annoying you further, let me make it perfectly clear, I have no intention of sleeping with Morgan Shore, ever.”
“Please, do not be offended. I’m trying to help you.”
“How, by making me feel more like an insensitive bastard than I already do?”
“You are not an insensitive bastard. Why you are behaving like one with Ms. Shore, I do not understand. What is it between the two of you? Are you in love with her?”
Dylan choked on the mouthful of coffee he had started to swallow. Placing the mug on the table in front of him, he got to his feet pressing his face into the crook of his elbow and struggling to breathe through the spasms. He crossed the room to the front window. Sweeping the curtains to one side, he leaned his fevered skin against the cool glass. After a moment his pounding heart began to calm.
“I don’t do love, Lillian. You know that.”
“I know you avoid it. That is not the same thing.”
“I guess you would know better than most.”
“You are speaking of me, now, yes? I will tell you honestly, I do not believe in love.”
Dylan looked over his shoulder and saw her watching him, her chin on her folded arms which rested along the back of the couch.
“You mean you don’t believe in wasting time with it?”
“No, I mean I do not believe the emotion exists.”
Dylan turned to her. “Care to elaborate?”
“It is simple. I believe love is a made-up thing, a label for the sloppy practice of allowing emotion to overrule reason. It means much more to me to be respected or desired or trusted, not for some ethereal construct like love, but because of my thoughts and actions.”
Dylan clapped his hands together several times.
“A compelling argument, but I can tell you for a fact it does exist. It killed my mother and father.”
“What are you talking about, darling?”
“I’m talking about the awesome power of love…to destroy. It’s not a story you hear very often but it happens more times than people like to admit.”
“Come,” she demanded, patting the spot beside her. “Tell your story to me.”
Reluctantly, Dylan did as she asked, sitting next to her. He angled his body to face her. He had not spoken about his parents for years, but he thought the tragic tale might make Lillian finally understand.<
br />
“My father was an extremely controlling man.” Dylan put his hand up when he saw she would have commented. “I know. We both know it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. But he was undisciplined, and that can be disastrous. His cheating was pathological. Despite the lying, apologies and broken promises my mother couldn’t break away from him because of love. It eventually cost her everything including her sanity. She killed herself when I was sixteen.”
Dylan paused letting the familiar rush of grief wash over him.
“I’m so sorry,” Lillian consoled. “And your father?”
“He couldn’t cope with life without my mother, the woman he loved. He started drinking. Drove his car into a telephone pole six months later.”
Lillian put her hand to his cheek.
“So, I might not have your pragmatic view of love, but I do have a healthy respect for its less romantic consequences.”
“And you never told any of this to Ms. Shore?”
“No.”
“But why?”
“What purpose would it serve? She doesn’t need to know. I let her go. I never thought…”
“You thought she wouldn’t come back,” Lillian supplied, her hand falling away from his face.
“I’d hoped. But she did. And now she can’t know. We’re inexorably tied together by the provisions of Aaron’s will.” He reached across the table for his abandoned mug. “I have to figure out a way to establish a professional relationship with her and I haven’t got a goddamn clue. That is why I’m currently avoiding her and why I was on my way to drinking myself into a stupor before you so rudely interrupted.” He saluted her with his cup of coffee before taking another drink.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully.
Dylan nodded, relieved he’d finally gotten through to her.
“You are afraid,” she stated flatly. “You are a coward.”
Dylan slanted away from Lillian and her accusation, his mouth slightly open and his insides going cold. Then a red heat started at the top of his head before consuming his body like a flame to flash paper.
“You’re damn right, I’m afraid,” he ground out. “What I feel for Morgan is eating me from the inside out. But I’m not willing to subject her to my mindless lust because I know she wants me. I can’t do it. I won’t.”
“Fine,” she shot back. “But it is cruel of you to ignore her like this. She deserves an explanation.”
Dylan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He remembered Morgan’s bitterness at the memorial service.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “I know you’re right.”
“Good, and I have the perfect opportunity for you.” She reached for her purse, clicking open the clasp and withdrawing a cream envelope which she placed on the table between them. “Your invitation to Mr. Bennett’s and my anniversary party.”
“Don’t count on me.”
“But I am counting on you. Ms. Shore has accepted. It will be, ah, neutral territory, a place for the two of you to speak away from work about more personal matters, yes? I’m sure by then you will have thought of how to explain yourself to her. You will have found a way to help her understand.”
Chapter 7
“All right then, you two, on three. One, two, three!”
Morgan smiled then blinked to clear the flash from her vision. When she could see again, she could hardly believe her eyes.
Feeling as if she’d been transported onto the set of a film noir, Morgan took in the scene before her. The setting was the Horizon Deck, named for the floor to ceiling windows encircling the room providing a grand view of the harbor at sunset. A seven-piece ensemble on a small stage in the far corner of the room played a score of big band tunes for the two hundred milling guests awash in deep reds and oranges. The men, as mandated by the prerequisite “black tie” on the invitation, were resplendent in tuxedos, both with and without tails. They played the perfect supporting roles to the women who were the featured players in the costumed drama. It was a veritable fashion show of cocktail dresses from the fifties showcasing silks, brocades, chiffons, and satins. Some were fluffed full with tulle skirts; some were pulled snug against the skin in fitted pencil styles. All were tinted in the colors of the era, basic blacks, starlet reds, sophisticated coppers, pale pinks and timeless teals.
Ironically, Morgan had found her vintage dress online. Even with the power of the web at her fingertips, it had taken more than a few hours of surfing before something appealed to her. The caption, “Bombshell,” had caught her attention. The idea of triggering an explosion thrilled her.
Where her professional life had unexpectedly become demanding and challenging, but utterly fulfilling, her personal life had become awkward and tedious and entirely infuriating, at least as far as the two men in her life were concerned.
Since the incident the morning of the reading, Philip had kept his distance. His work kept him exceptionally busy, and he was seldom at home. Nevertheless when they were together, she felt on edge with him, on a kind of constant alert. Most times he was polite and solicitous, but there had been several occasions when he had become dark and callous. Morgan suspected alcohol as the cause, but hadn’t seen him with an actual drink in his hand since the morning of the reading. If he was drinking he was doing it out of her sight.
In an effort to normalize their relationship, she had asked him to be her escort. He’d seemed pleased by the invitation and had been acting the perfect gentleman, even surprising her with a stretch limousine for the occasion.
She wished things were going as well with Dylan. After her conversation with Lillian, Morgan had made an appointment to discuss the finances of the Foundation through his assistant. They’d met the very next day. Forty-five minutes later Morgan had a much fuller understanding of the financial workings of the trust and the worst migraine she’d ever experienced. They continued to meet frequently, and his behavior continued to be above reproach. In every way he was by-the-book professional. It made her want to strip naked, stand on her desk and scream at him to take her then and there. The effort of stopping herself from such ridiculous action meant she had recurring low grade headaches.
“Ms. Morgan Shore escorted by Mr. Philip Field.”
Morgan slipped her hand into the crook of Philip’s proffered arm and stepped forward, concentrating on not tripping as she descended three, red-carpeted steps. That accomplished, she and Philip made their way toward the guests of honor. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett were holding court in the center of the room like the stars of the show they were.
“Sorella!”
“Lillian, congratulations! This is wonderful.”
Morgan clasped hands with Lillian, who tugged her forward to place a quick kiss on her cheeks.
“You like my party?”
“I love your party.”
“I must thank you for the lovely gift. We received it yesterday. It is a beautiful frame. I hope to have a photo from the evening to put in it. It was very thoughtful.”
“I’m glad you liked it. And Mr. Bennett?” Morgan turned toward the man sitting next to Lillian in a wheelchair.
“Lenny, if you please. I’m afraid I’m not much for picture frames, but I do appreciate a lovely pair of legs.”
Morgan laughed as she took his gnarled hands in her own.
“Were you surprised by your party, Lenny?”
“It’s not easy to surprise someone who’s been around as long as I have. I managed to figure things out ahead of time.”
“Because you had the household staff spying on me,” Lillian scolded.
“You didn’t!”
“I’m afraid I did, Miss Shore.”
“Please, call me Morgan.”
“I’ll call you anything you like if you’ll promise to have a drink with me later. I’d ask you to dance, but I’m saving them all for my bride.”
Lenny let go of one of Morgan’s hands to reach out for Lillian. A look passed between them more intimate than many kisses Morgan had seen couples share
.
“Lillian,” Morgan heard Philip offer in greeting.
She turned, noticing Lillian narrowed her eyes before arching her eyebrows questioningly at her.
“You remember Aaron’s son? I asked Philip as my guest.”
“How lovely,” Lillian recovered. “Of course I remember you. Thank you for escorting my sorella. She has come to mean a great deal to me.”
Lillian’s stern tone did not escape Morgan’s notice. Or Philip’s, judging by his response.
“She means a great deal to me, as well.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“That reminds me.” Lillian touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Mr. Drumlin asked after you. I believe he would like to speak with you this evening.”
“Oh?” Morgan was perplexed by what he could possibly have to say that hadn’t been discussed in one of their interminable meetings. “I’ll look for him.”
She felt Philip stiffen beside her and hoped she hadn’t made an unfortunate mistake
“Philip.” Morgan tugged at his sleeve. “We’re monopolizing the Bennetts. Other guests are waiting.”
“Of course,” Philip agreed, his mocking tone sending off warning bells in Morgan’s head. “Lenny, great party.”
“We’ll have that drink later,” Morgan offered in parting, glad Philip followed her without further comment.
* * * *
Catching the eye of the bartender, Dylan tapped the side of his glass. The young man poured him another two fingers and Dylan brought the liquor to his lips as his eyes roamed, yet again, to the entryway. And suddenly, Morgan was there.
Two things struck him with physical force, causing his hand to shake as he lowered the glass to the bar. The first was she had come with Philip. His arm was curved possessively around her, his hand resting on her hip as they posed, smiling, for the coming aboard photo. The second was how unbelievably sexy she looked.
Her gunmetal halter dress fit like it had been made for her. It clung in all the right places, making Dylan recall all too vividly the curve of her breasts and the plane of her belly. The skirt was full and short, making her waist look impossibly tiny and her legs enticingly long. His fingers itched to run up over her black silk stockings and into the tangle of frothy fabric flared over the tops of her thighs. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to what he might find underneath. Something told him it probably wasn’t much, if it was anything at all.
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