Standing in front of the full-length mirror in the dressing room, she checked her appearance with the Polaroid snapshot. The light blue-purple silk skirt was long and straight with a slit to the knee, and the matching top had a wide cowl collar that was meant to be worn off the shoulders, according to the snapshot. Sloan felt a little odd with bare shoulders, but when she tried to tug the collar up, the soft silk slid back down to the tops of her arms, so she left it that way.
She checked the picture again and fastened the matching belt around her waist; then she stepped into the silver sandals that were in the picture. She clipped on the silver earrings and the bracelet she was supposed to wear; then she picked up the silver choker that was in the photograph and put it on, too. She felt as if she was wearing an awful lot of jewelry, but she was a fashion neophyte, while Sara and her mother were experts on the subject, so she decided to adhere to their pictorial advice.
Paul’s reaction to her appearance was so flattering that Sloan was instantly glad she’d adhered to the layout in the picture. “You look stunning,” he said with a smile of pure masculine appreciation. “What do you call that color?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because it’s the same color as your eyes.”
“In that case, I would call this color ‘blue,’ ” Sloan told him with an unaffected smile.
• • •
At the bottom of the staircase, a uniformed maid was waiting to show them to the living room, where cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were being served to a gathering that included the three members of the family and a man who was talking to Paris, his back to the doorway.
Her father looked up as soon as they walked in and put his glass on the coffee table. “Right on time,” he said with a welcoming smile as he stood up.
He introduced the stranger as Noah Maitland. Sloan’s first reaction had been surprise that a guest was included in such an awkward family situation, but when Noah Maitland turned and looked at her, she felt like a dazzled teenager.
Tall, tanned, and black-haired, he had a smile that could heat a room, eyes the color of cold steel, and a cultured baritone voice that had the same effect as a beautiful piece of music. He was such a study in contrasts, he had so much sex appeal, and he looked so fantastic in his impeccably tailored dark suit and striped tie that Sloan lost her concentration when he reached out to shake her hand. “Beautiful women certainly run in this family,” he said, his gray eyes warm with admiration as they looked straight into hers.
“How do you do?” Sloan managed. “Thank you,” she added awkwardly, hastily withdrawing her hand and her gaze from his. He was Sara’s “Mr. Perfect” in the flesh.
On the way into dinner her father quietly confided, “Paris and Noah are practically engaged.”
“They make a beautiful couple,” Sloan said honestly, watching her sister walking beside Noah into the dining room. She felt a little sorry for Sara’s missed opportunity, but as soon as the meal began, she had larger problems because Paul and she immediately became the focal point of the conversation.
“This is a momentous occasion for our entire family,” her father intoned with a glance around the table that specifically encompassed Noah Maitland, who was seated directly across the table from Sloan. “Sloan, tell us all about yourself.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Sloan replied, trying not to notice that Noah Maitland’s entire attention was now focused on her. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Start with your career,” Carter prompted. “What do you do?”
“I’m an interior designer.”
“Artistic women also seem to run in the family,” he observed with a smile at Paris.
“I am not artistic,” Edith pointed out bluntly from her position at the foot of the table. “Did you go to college?” she demanded of Sloan.
“Yes.”
“What did you study?”
The time had come to portray herself as the frivolous, not-too-bright woman Paul Richardson needed her to be. “Oh, I studied a lot of things,” Sloan said, staying as close to the truth as possible so she’d be less likely to accidentally contradict herself later. “I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do with my life. I kept changing my major.” She paused for a spoonful of the soup that had been put in front of her.
Her great-grandmother didn’t see a need to eat. “How were your grades?”
“Fair.”
“Are you a good interior decorator?”
Sloan took petty gratification in correcting her. “Interior designer,” she said.
Paul Richardson spoke up then. Smiling fondly at Sloan, he said, “I think she’s very good.”
Edith Reynolds refused to be convinced. “All the interior decorators I hear of are homosexuals,” she announced. “In this day and age, I would have hoped young women like Paris and you would do something more useful with your lives.”
Sloan stole a look at Paris to see how her silent sister was reacting to this not-so-subtle criticism that encompassed both of them, but if Paris felt anything, she didn’t show it. Wearing a red sarong-style dress with a mandarin collar and her dark hair swept up on the top of her head, she looked beautiful, exotic, and composed. “What sort of career would you choose?” Sloan asked the white-haired woman.
“I believe I would be a tax accountant,” Edith declared. “I know I could have done a better job and found more deductions than my accountants find.”
“Unfortunately, Sloan doesn’t have a head for figures,” Paul said proudly and patted Sloan’s hand.
“What about sports?” Carter asked her. “Do you play golf?”
“No.”
“Tennis?”
Sloan played tennis, but she knew she wasn’t in their league. “A little. Not much.”
He switched his gaze to Paul. “Do you play, Paul?”
“A little.”
“Let’s get together tomorrow morning at nine, Paris and I will help you polish up your game. You should have some golf lessons while you’re here, too. Paris is an excellent golfer.” He looked at Paris. “Will you take Sloan out to the club tomorrow afternoon, make sure she has whatever she needs, and give her some pointers?”
“Yes, of course,” Paris instantly replied, flashing Sloan a quick, polite smile.
“I really don’t like golf,” Sloan began.
“That’s because you don’t play,” he argued. “What about hobbies? What do you do with your spare time?”
Sloan was beginning to feel a little badgered. “I, um . . . I read.”
“What do you read?” he asked, sounding a little disappointed in her.
“Magazines,” Sloan told him, intending to add to his disappointment. “I just love House and Garden. Don’t you, Paris?”
Her sister looked startled to be included and Sloan was certain she was lying when she replied, “Yes, very much.”
“What about your other interests?”
The interrogation had gone on too long, Sloan decided. She was hungry and broke off a piece of her dinner roll. “What do you mean?”
“What about current affairs?” he pressed.
Lowering her eyes to hide her laughter, Sloan buttered her roll. “I love current affairs. I watch the Entertainment channel on cable all the time, just to find out who is having an affair with who. Or is it ‘whom’?” Affecting an expression of innocent confusion, she raised her gaze and caught Noah Maitland’s look of amused disgust before he hid it. He had just written her off as an idiot, she realized with a surprising twinge of regret.
Evidently, her father had decided not to let her disgrace herself further or add to his guest’s boredom. “What do you think is going to happen to the market?” he asked, looking at Noah.
When Sara referred to “the market” she meant the semiannual introduction of new products at the design centers in Dallas and New York. “At the Dallas market, rose and gold tones were really ‘in,’ this year,” Sloan said with sham delight, knowing perfectly well Ca
rter meant to discuss the stock market. “And at the New York market, I saw some really divine new jungle prints.”
“You and Paris will have a great deal to talk about later,” Carter Reynolds said.
With a mixture of relief, amusement, and mortification, Sloan heeded his unspoken request to be quiet. She was a little worried that she’d carried her act too far, but when she stole a look at Paul, he gave her a wide grin that told her she’d done even better than he’d expected.
Satisfied that she needn’t worry on that score, Sloan pretended to concentrate on her eight-course meal while she listened to her father and Noah Maitland’s animated discussion about the world economy. The two men differed radically on several points, but they were both so well-informed that Sloan was fascinated and a little awed.
In addition to her contributions to her pension fund at the police department, Sloan deposited a percentage of every paycheck into a retirement account of her own, and she’d insisted her mother follow suit. By the time dessert was cleared away, she was so impressed with Noah Maitland’s logic that she decided to change her entire investment strategy.
Edith Reynolds reached for her cane and struggled to her feet while the last dessert plate was being lifted off the linen tablecloth. “It is time for me to retire,” she announced.
Paul and Noah both stood up to assist her, but she waved them off. “I do not need to be treated like an invalid,” she informed them brusquely. “I am as healthy as the two of you!”
Despite her claim, Sloan saw the awkward stiffness of her movements as she leaned heavily on her cane, and Sloan realized it was sheer force of will, rather than physical strength, that propelled the elderly woman to the far side of the enormous room.
In the doorway, she paused and looked back at the group seated at her gigantic baroque dining room table beneath a spectacular chandelier. Sloan expected the white-haired matriarch to say some sort of formal goodnight. “Do not forget to turn off the lights!” she barked instead, and Sloan hastily looked at her lap to hide her mirth.
Edith’s departure seemed to signal the immediate end of the dinner. “If you young people will excuse me,” Carter announced, standing up, “I have some work to do.”
“I think I’d like to take a walk,” Paul said, already pulling out Sloan’s heavy chair. “Sloan?”
“I’d love a walk,” she replied, absolutely dying to get out of there.
There was no way for Paul to avoid inviting the other couple to join them, but Sloan breathed a sigh of relief when they declined.
Outside, Sloan waited to speak until they were almost to the putting green and out of hearing of anyone at the house; then she turned and looked at Paul with unconcealed mirth. “I cannot believe I’m actually related to these people,” she confided.
“Neither can I,” he admitted with a chuckle.
“My great-grandmother must be a direct descendant of Genghis Khan,” Sloan continued.
“For appearances’ sake, I should either hold your hand or put my arm around you, in case anyone is watching. Do you have a preference?”
“No, either one is fine,” Sloan said, so preoccupied with her subject that she scarcely noticed when he took her hand. “And then there’s my sister! She’s so lifeless. No wonder people think she’s cold and haughty.”
“Do you think she is?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What do you think of your father?”
“I have an impression, but it isn’t completely formed yet. At least I think I understand what my mother saw in him. She was only eighteen at the time, and he has a lot of charm, a lot of polish, and he’s very handsome. I can see how dazzled she must have been by all that.”
“What did you think of Maitland?”
The question surprised Sloan, since he wasn’t a family member or of professional interest to either of them. “Handsome,” she reluctantly admitted.
“He certainly thought you were attractive. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you at first.”
“You mean until dinner, when he discovered I’m actually a complete idiot?” she said ruefully.
In a spontaneous gesture, Paul let go of her hand, put his arm around her shoulders, and gave her a light hug. “You were absolutely perfect.”
Startled by the gruff sincerity in his voice, Sloan gazed at his moonlit profile. “Thank you,” she said, and for the very first time, she actually felt as if she had merit to him as a partner.
“You haven’t left your badge or weapon where anyone might find them, have you?”
“No, they’re well-hidden in my room.”
“We may as well call it a night. I know you’re dying to get back to your book.”
Sloan turned back toward the house, and while he seemed in a more relaxed mood, she decided to press him for a little more information. “I wish I knew what you were specifically looking for here,” she began.
“If I had a specific answer for that,” he said, “I’d be able to get a judge to sign a search warrant, in which case, I wouldn’t have needed you to get me in here.”
In a lighter tone, he said, “No matter what happens, my time here won’t be completely wasted. I heard some very interesting things at the dinner table tonight when Maitland and your father were talking about the world economy.”
“Like what?”
He laughed at her intent expression. “Like the fact that I need to change my stock market investment strategy. Interesting, isn’t it, that their opinions differ so much? Your father controls a bank with branches all over the world, and Maitland has investments all over the world. They both have common interests and a global outlook. I expected them to have a reasonably similar philosophy.”
“I thought the same thing,” Sloan said. “Fundamentally, it seemed to me that they both think the same things are going to happen, but they disagreed on the effect and the timing. I noticed they seem to do a lot of off-shore investing.”
He slanted her an odd smile. “I noticed that, too.”
• • •
He walked her to her bedroom door, but instead of saying good night in the hall, he followed her into the bedroom and closed the door; then he waited.
“What are you doing?” Sloan asked, already halfway across the room and removing her earrings.
“Kissing you good-night,” he joked.
When he left, Sloan decided to write a letter to Sara while all the events of the evening were still fresh in her mind. A television set was concealed inside the antique armoire across from her bed, and she turned on CNN; then she went to work on the letter.
16
The first hour after dawn was Sloan’s favorite time of day to run along the beach, but it was nearly seven o’clock when she woke up. Anxious to get started, she hurried out of bed, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and put on a pair of shorts and a tank top that Sara hadn’t removed when she repacked Sloan’s suitcases.
The house seemed deserted as she walked silently along the hallway and down the stairs, but outside, two men were pruning a hedge along the side of the property. Sloan waved to them as she jogged across the lawn, her spirits already beginning to lift as she breathed in the salty air and felt the familiar presence of the sea. Lazy waves lapped the sand beside her feet as she ran along the water’s edge, and gulls wheeled by, their boisterous cries as uplifting and soothing to her as music.
Overhead, the sky was crystal blue with fat white clouds floating by on a gentle cooling breeze. On her left, the ocean filled the entire horizon, majestic, beautiful, untamed. On her right, the horizon was obscured by a procession of mansions, a few of which were even bigger than her father’s, and there was some sort of activity at all of them. Gardeners were looking after flower beds, servants were tidying patios and taking care of swimming pools, and sprinkler systems were spraying water on lawns that sparkled like wet emeralds in the morning sun.
Concentrating her gaze on the ocean, Sloan ran three miles along the water’s edge and then turned back. S
he kept up the pace until the little flag on her father’s putting green was visible; then she slowed to a jog. Palm Beach residents evidently slept later than their Bell Harbor counterparts, she decided, because she’d had the beach almost to herself on the first half of her run, but now there were several other people running along the sand. Runners here were also less friendly, avoiding eye contact instead of greeting each other as they passed with a nod or smile.
Sloan was pondering that when she was distracted by an elderly gardener in a long-sleeved shirt who’d been working in a flower bed near the edge of the lawn. He stood up; then he clutched his left arm and doubled over. Sloan ran toward him, already scanning the grounds for someone to help her if help was needed, but he seemed to be the only one working at that house.
“Take it easy,” she said gently. “I’ll help you. Lean on me.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, wondering if he could make it to the iron bench that encircled the trunk of a nearby tree. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“My arm,” he gasped, white-faced with pain.
“Are you having any chest pains?”
“No. Had surgery . . . on my . . . shoulder.”
Enormously relieved that it wasn’t a heart attack, Sloan guided him over to the tree and eased him onto the white iron bench. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly,” she coached. “Do you have any medicine to take for the pain?”
He took a deep breath and then another, following her instructions. “I’ll be all right . . . in a minute.”
“Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.”
After a few more deep breaths, the gardener lifted his head and looked at her, and Sloan noticed his color was already improving. He was a little younger than she’d thought—probably in his late sixties—and he looked thoroughly chagrined. “When I stood up, I forgot and leaned on my left arm,” he explained. “I felt like my shoulder was going to tear loose from the rest of me.”
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