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Rita Award winning title
"Desert Isle Keeper” – All About Romance Reviews
Jessica Hansen’s success and icy calm hide painful secrets and a past that shapes her life. That is, until she meets Springer MacDowell, her best friend’s son. One decision sets off a series of cataclysmic events that rip apart her safe life.
Retreating to an old summer house in Vermont, Jessica slowly learns to accept friendship, the past, and the new family she’s made. She’s building a hopeful future, until Springer comes back into her life, ready to shatter her new-found peace.
Will these two survivors ever learn how to belong? Can they heal enough to make a family
theirs?
Anne Stuart recently celebrated her forty years as a published author. She has won every major award in the romance field and appeared on the bestseller list of the
NY Times, Publisher’s Weekly, and
USA Today, as well as being featured in
Vogue, People Magazine, and
Entertainment Tonight. Anne lives by a lake in the hills of Northern Vermont with her fabulous husband.
Coming Soon!
Chapter One
The Slaughterer, vol. 87: Tombs of Blood
MATT DECKER SURVEYED the carnage around him. He was a man’s man,
out to battle injustice and destroy it wherever he found it, with no weak-kneed government giving him limp excuses.
Decker was judge and justice, an avenging jury, better known as the
Slaughterer.
Slowly, carefully
Decker picked his way over the bodies that littered the El Salvador sidewalk,
his trusty companion, best friend and lover, the Smith & Wesson .45 by his
side. His job was done here; it was time to move on.
Back to the real world,
back to the compound hidden deep in the bowels of the ugliest, best city in the
world: New York. He rubbed a bloody hand across his sweat-streaked face and
looked north. It was good to be a man, in a man’s world, he thought.
Who knows where his next assignment might come from? Wherever evil stalked the world, wherever
injustice flourished. Matt Decker was there to combat it, to wipe it out
in a blaze of gunfire. Someone once said there were eight million stories in
every city. As of the last census they might be down to seven million, but Matt
Decker, the Slaughterer, could seek out and find that one story that needed his
own particular brand of expertise. He gave his smoking Smith & Wesson a
fond look and moved into the shadows. It was time to start.
JESSICA HANSEN dropped
the cheap paperback thriller onto her desk and looked down at her thin fingers
as they tapped the teak-and-glass surface in front of her. Her hands were
curiously small for someone of her height, the fingers narrow and
nervous-looking, the discreetly elegant rings hanging loosely. A perfect pearly
shade of pink adorned the long nails, nails that were expensively maintained at
a Madison Avenue salon for a price that didn’t bear thinking about. For a moment
Jessica stared at her fingertips, a sign of pampered affluence that proclaimed
her free of mundane activities such as dishwashing, typing or gardening. Like a
Chinese empress, she thought distantly, turning her thin hands over to survey
the soft, useless palms. Not a sign of the calluses of her childhood, not a
mark anywhere, except for the faint, spidery tracing of scars across her
delicate wrists. So faint that no one else had noticed them or come up with
difficult questions she’d rather not answer.
She turned her
palms back down toward the desk, banishing the thought of those scars from her
mind with her customary efficiency. She leaned forward and pressed the intercom
buzzer. "Jilly, hold all my calls.” Her voice had its usual smooth,
self-controlled calm, never hinting at the turmoil that kept her stomach
knotted and her hands clenched in fists.
"Mr. Kinsey is
expecting you in half an hour, Jessica.” Jilly’s efficient British voice
returned, but beneath it Jessica could hear the soft note of concern.
So much for the
efficacy of her mask, she thought wearily. "Which Mr. Kinsey? Peter or his
father?”
"The old man
himself. I don’t know if it’s important or not.”
"A word to the
wise, Jilly,” Jessica managed in a perfect drawl. "When the president of the
company wants to see you it’s always important.”
"Even if he’s
going to be your father-in-law?”
"Especially if
he’s going to be your father-in-law,” Jessica said. "Though you know as well as
I do that nothing’s official.”
"Not yet.”
Jilly’s voice left little doubt that it was just a matter of time. Whether that
voice approved or not was another matter. "Shall I tell the old man you’ll be
up?”
Jessica
hesitated. Never had she made a decision based on emotion rather than
professionalism in her enormously successful career at Kinsey Enterprises.
Indeed, there’d been no room in her life for emotion at all. Until recently,
when she’d been unable to fight the crushing depression that was hobbling her.
"Call Peter for
me, Jilly,” she said suddenly, giving in to temptation and despising herself
for it. "Tell him... tell him something’s come up. Have him
head his father off.”
"Something concerning the Lincoln merger?” Jilly suggested, understanding
far too well.
"Yes...
no. Then they’d want to know what it is. Tell him I’ll explain later. He’ll
cover for me.”
"Of course he
will. Is there anything I can do, Jessica?” The concern wasn’t even masked at
this point, and at the other end of the disembodied voice, alone in her
spacious office, Jessica grimaced in sudden pain.
"No, thanks,
Jilly. I just... have a wretched headache and too much work
to get done to deal with interruptions. I owe you one.”
"Anytime.”
The intercom went dead. It was already late Friday afternoon—almost everyone had left the headquarters of
Kinsey Enterprises, everyone but the workaholics. Her desk was clear,
spotlessly neat, not a trace of work in
sight, with Hamilton MacDowell’s latest installment of The Slaughtererbeckoning with all its gory glory. She turned to look out the wide windows,
past the Turner landscape that hung on her walls, to the New York skyline,
never noticing that her hands had once more clenched into fists.
At the age of
thirty-one Jessica had her life ruthlessly under control. She had climbed to
just within reach of the top of her profession, that summit shimmering in
sight, about to drop into her lap like a ripe plum. Vice-president of Kinsey
Enterprises, Inc., she was about to become engaged to the president’s charming,
intelligent, cultured son, she was the pampered protégé of old Jasper Kinsey
himself and she was in the midst of overseeing a merger with the Lincoln
Corporation that would pull them back from a dangerous precipice and quite
possibly double their already substantial profits. So why was she sitting at
her desk, her hands clenched in front of her, wondering how in the world she
was going to escape?
Could it be
burnout? Jessica had taken seminars on the subject, determined to avoid
anything that could derail her corporate success. Financial and personal
triumph loomed directly ahead, her past put firmly, completely behind her. The
taste of success was sweet, she told herself, ignoring the hint of ashes in her
mouth.
Her hand
unclenched to push through her hair. What there was left of it. The
wheat-colored tendrils were beginning to reach just below her small ears, and thoughtlessly, nervously, her hand
clutched at the razored strands. She’d have to have it trimmed again,
she thought absently, pushing it back as she ignored the sudden rebellious
thought. She didn’t want to go in for her biweekly trim, she didn’t want Felipe
nagging at her, forcing food on her, clucking in that maddening way as he
sculpted the shining honey-blond cap.
"Only you could
wear your hair this short and still look feminine, darling,” he’d fussed last
week. "But don’t you think it’s time for a change? Here, eat some cannoli.”
He’d shoved the rich pastry in front of her, and it had taken all her resolve
not to throw up in his face. It would have served him right. "You’re beginning
to have a faintly concentration-camp kind of look to you, and the hair doesn’t
help. Eat, for heaven’s sake!”
Even now, the thought
of food made her gag. She hadn’t eaten enough in the last few weeks to keep a
bird alive, and she knew it. But knowing it wasn’t enough to work up an
appetite. Jessica had spent so much of her life fighting to keep off the extra
pounds that could so easily creep up and turn her five-foot-eight-inch frame
into a graceless lump that the thought of being too thin was incomprehensible.
Restlessly she
pushed back from the desk to stride over to the windows. New York was dark and dirty that summer afternoon, the oppresssiveheat and humidity trapping the smog and smothering the city with it. Up on the
thirty-seventh floor Jessica could feel the darkness invade her light, airy
office, and not even the lemon-yellow carpet, her one concession to frivolity
in the past ten years, could dispel it. Her feet were silent as they crossed
the room, the tap of the leather shoes muffled in the deep buttery pile. The
heavy weighted door to her private bathroom opened silently beneath her thin
nervous hands and shut just as silently behind her. Leaning against the marble
sink, she stared at her reflection.
The Snow Queen
stared back. The Ice Princess, encased in her impervious calm. Large,
assessing, chilly blue eyes filled her thin face, shadowed by pale mauve
shadows that Elizabeth Arden couldn’t quite disguise. The ruthlessly short
blond hair stood in spikes around her head, setting off her small ears,
delicately pointed chin and nose. Her mouth was large and pale and unused to
smiling, and the face she turned to the world was one of unruffled calm and
control.
Her Ralph Lauren
suit was hanging loosely around her tall, slender frame. Felipe, damn him, was
right; she was getting too thin. At this rate anorexia was right around the
corner. But somehow nothing could make her eat. And Peter seemed to find her
slimness—no, her skinniness— attractive. Maybe she should gain weight, she
thought, with a flash of mocking, uncustomary humor.
It must simply
be nerves about the merger. A great deal rested on its outcome. Her career,
perhaps, her relationship with Peter, the future of Kinsey Enterprises. Once it
was safely wrapped up, she’d feel more like herself again. Although who that
self was, she couldn’t quite say.
She looked up
from her slender, elegant body. Concentration camp indeed! The ice-blue eyes
looked into their mirrored partner; the cool, controlled, distantly amused
false smile that she had perfected over the years played about her pale lips.
And then, to her absolute horror, the face in the mirror crumpled suddenly in
uncontrollable grief and despair. And Jessica quickly turned away, unable to
witness her own naked pain, and remembered.
NO ONE COULD have
called it a happy childhood, not by the wildest stretch of the imagination. And
yet Jessica had always comforted herself and her sisters with the doubtful
assurance that others had it far, far worse. After all, their parents stuck
together, through thick and thin, on the wagon or off, clinging to each other
with what surely must be a deep, abiding love. Many of their friends’ parents
were divorced, the children forced to shuttle back and forth between two
stilted, guilt-ridden households. At least they still all had one another.
They weren’t
beaten, or abused. Certainly, Daddy had knocked Maren against the wall one
night when he’d been drinking and she’d come in late from a date. He’d called
her a tramp, ordered her from the house, and it had taken all Jessica’s tact
and diplomacy to soothe the raging belligerence of her father, the tearful
defiance of her seventeen- year-old sister, while their mother kept silent
behind the locked guest- room door. The little peacemaker, her father had
called her during his sober days. The little mother, trying desperately to make
things all right, he’d said, laughing and promising to change. And he would
change, for weeks, months—even, on one glorious occasion, for two miraculous
years of sobriety. But then something would happen and he’d be back again, the
tearful, bellicose, sodden heap of a man taking over her father’s charming
persona.
And Jessica
would tell her older sister, Maren, and her younger sister, Sunny, that they
were better off. Some people’s parents never stopped drinking, never even
tried. Look at Uncle Bob Lemming’s family. Not that he was really their uncle,
just a drinking crony of their father’s from way, way back. And at least it
wasn’t all bad. Mother and Daddy were never down at the same time. Once Daddy
started drinking, Mother would become strong and maternal, the wage earner, the
dominant force, relying on Jessica to keep the home going, the meals on time,
her sisters in school. Until Daddy would begin to pull himself up again, go
back to AA meetings and then Mother’s nerves would shatter, and it would be
time for Daddy to be sober and strong. All the while the three children would
cling to one another for comfort and safety.
At least there
was enough money. Daddy’s drinking was never so bad that he lost a job. He was
a very bright man, was Lars Hansen, a talented, charming engineer with an
astounding ability to get the job done.
Employers gladly overlooked his periods of diminished effectiveness,knowing from long experience that they didn’t last forever.
Except that
sometimes they seemed to. There were no dates for Jessica, who was too tall and
too fat and too caught up in trying to hold her family together, in soothing
her father’s insecurities, in healing her mother’s fears, in bringing up the
family that would fall to pieces without her. There were no friends for
Jessica, who spent her spare time reading and daydreaming when she wasn’t
struggling with the bland, packaged carbohydrate-laden food her mother bought
for Jessica to prepare. There was no peace for Jessica, who balanced her
maternal concern between her parents and her rebellious sisters, Jessica who
tried so desperately to make everything all right and who couldn’t help but
fail in the face of overwhelming odds, time and time again.
There was only
this life and this family she had been born into, was trapped in. She used to
daydream about going off to boarding school, being
with other girls, away from the constant demands that overwhelmed her.
She knew she could never go, even if her parents would part with the money. She
wouldn’t even go to college, not until Sunny and Maren had escaped and her
parents had come to some sort of peace. They couldn’t make it without her,
could they? None of them could. No, her life could wait, just a few more years.
She was only fifteen—Maren was going to the University of Minnesota that fall,
Sunny was their high school’s most promising track star. Jessica knew exactly
what she was running from.
But when Jessica
was fifteen everything changed.
Maren was away
at college, and there were only the two of them. For a while things were more
peaceful. Daddy wasn’t drinking, and Mother, though lost in a chronic
depression, seemed to have controlled her rages. Maren still bore the scar from
one of those rages—the time their mother had smashed all the china, a large
shard flying across the room and embedding itself in Maren’s right leg.
And Jessica
allowed herself to breathe a tiny sigh of relief, until the afternoon when she
came home from school and found her father passed out on the sofa, and Uncle
Bob Lemming waiting for her, his reddened face wreathed in a smile, the look
that she had come to expect and dread in his bloodshot eyes, the smell of
Scotch on his breath.
SPRINGER
MACDOWELL slid his long, long legs back down into the cramped confines of his
1963 Lotus Europa and started the engine, listening to the instant purr with a
distant satisfaction. Satisfaction with his car, but not his life. Why was he
doing this again? Why did he let himself in
for the complete, unutterable weariness of driving cross-country every
year, and for what? For the dubious pleasure of seeing the old man who by some
accident had fathered him and then betrayed him, that twenty-year-old betrayal
still raw in Springer’s soul. Returning to New York every summer only brought
back all the pain and doubt and anger that he usually managed to squash down,
and even the presence of his mother couldn’t prevent it all from spilling over.
So why did he come?
The western
Pennsylvania highway stretched out in front of him, heat shimmering from the
pavement, the lush greenery passing in a blur. His eyes were trained on the
road with single-minded concentration, a concentration necessary after three
days on the road with only the bare minimum of stops. He knew that if he took
his time he might never make it to New York, might turn around and head back to
the West Coast, and to hell with everything. But he’d promised his mother, promised
Elyssa that he’d try one more time to heal the broken ties with his bastard of
a father. Too many people had broken their promises to her—he wasn’t going to
be another one, even if it killed him.
It wouldn’t.
He’d seen his father too many times in the past twenty years; he knew full well
he could deal with it, even managing to be pleasant if the situation called
for it. But Hamilton MacDowell wasn’t fooled. He knew his son hated him, he
knew why, and there was absolutely nothing he could or would do about it except
stumble through Elyssa’s periodic attempts at reconciliation with the same
miserable grace that Springer mustered and breathe the same sigh of relief that
Springer did when they finally were released from each other’s onerous
presence.
Releasing some
of the pressure from the accelerator, Springer stretched the long legs that had
given him the nickname that still clung to him. John Springer MacDowell, king
of the Princeton basketball court, second only to Bill Bradley in the college’s
history, Springer MacDowell of the mile-long arms and legs and the devastating
hook shot that had made more than one professional recruiter drool and then
weep, as Springer calmly and resolutely turned his back on their lucrative
offers. Hamilton had been too proud of his son, too eager for Springer to
succeed. Once aware of his father’s belated paternal pride, Springer had done
the only thing he could think of to punish the old man. He’d enlisted in the
marines with the express purpose of rubbing the liberal old man’s nose in it.
But that, too,
had backfired. It wasn’t Hamilton MacDowell who suffered from the deprivation,
the soulless, violent agony that was war. It was Springer, who since his
father’s betrayal had done everything he could to squash down any signs of
sensitivity, Springer who had to deal with the soul-destroying despair warfare
brings. Still had to deal with it.
Reaching up, he pushed the mirrored sunglasses up to rub the bridge of his nose. It was a definitive nose,
not quite Hamilton’s imposing beak, but a determined, hawklike blade
nonetheless, giving his face a brutal look not tempered by the high cheekbones,
deep-brown—almost black—eyes and thick straight, silky black hair. His mother
had likened him to an Indian, knowing full well he got his spectacular looks
from her, not the father who had bequeathed him the bladelike nose and a legacy
of pain and hatred.
Women had always
responded to those looks, to Springer’s immensely tall, wiry body, the
distant, beautiful face and those dark, unfathomable, lost eyes. And Springer
had always taken advantage of that response, taking what was offered with
pleasure and irresponsibility and a complete disregard for commitment. Even his
brief marriage hadn’t curtailed his activities.
Only a reluctant
maturity had done that, so that now, at age thirty-five, he’d gone for the
longest period of celibacy since the discovery of his father’s betrayal. It
had been five months since he’d slept with a woman, and he was in no mood to
remedy that situation. He was mortally tired of faceless bodies, of casual sex,
of the ritual mating dance that ended before it even began, ended in a tangle
of sheets and limbs and performances. Maybe he was more like his father than he
wanted to believe.
He’d promised
Elyssa he’d stay for a month. Already the time loomed ahead like a prison
sentence. He wouldn’t get in till well past midnight—that would kill one day.
Only twenty-nine after that. His strong hands clenched around the
leather-covered steering wheel, and once more the large foot in the well-worn Nikes
pressed down on the accelerator. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could
be gone. The Lotus sped along the Pennsylvania highway like an arrow, straight
and true to the heart.
ONLY A TRACE of
redness marred the cool blue beauty of Jessica’s eyes as she slid behind the
empty desk once more and waited, waited for God knows what. It must simply be
stress, she told herself firmly. Understandable stress, caused by the upcoming
merger that depended so much on her initiative and her ability to charm Rickford
Lincoln during the upcoming weekend, not to mention the changes her expected
success would wreak in her life. The vice-presidency was everything she had
worked for, everything she had longed for. Peter Kinsey, charming, passive,
clever, would propose marriage. It would be a good match for her, a sensible, advantageous mating of brains and
blue blood and ruthless ambitions.
They would both supply the brains—her determination would more than
make up for her Scandinavian blood, which wasn’t quite WASPish enough. In the
past few months Peter had been devoted, charming and diffident enough to allow
her to keep the relationship on a platonic level. But once the merger went
through, the engagement formalized, she’d have no more excuses. None that he
would believe, anyway.
It was going to
be a busy weekend, no doubt of that, and she’d have felt a lot better able to
face it if she’d had more than a few hours of sleep every night during the past
week, if she’d managed to eat more than a mouthful or two at her irregular
meals. Rickford Lincoln was a recently divorced man in his late sixties, a big,
powerful bull of a man eager to celebrate his new freedom, and Jessica had the
distinctly uneasy impression that he wanted to celebrate that freedom with
her. What had started out as sly glances and comments during the early part of
the negotiations several months ago had quickly graduated to semiserious
propositions, seemingly innocent touches that always managed to graze her flat
buttocks or the gentle swell of her breasts. She’d used that attraction,
played with it with masterful cleverness, stringing him along to the point of
agreeing to the merger with no more than a promising smile, just the right
amount of reluctance in moving out of the way of his damp, clutching fingers,
and the hint of wonders to come in her cool blue eyes.
It had worked, as it had worked so often in the past during her climb up the corporate ladder. A smile here,
a word there, always stopping just short of cementing it with an affair. Not
that anyone had realized she did stop there—she had the reputation of being a
cool customer, ready to discreetly sleep her way to the top. So far she had
managed to avoid it with practiced skill, but she wasn’t sure how much longer
she could do so.
Her priorities
were clear, and sooner or later she’d have to pay the price. Her ambitions and
talents had stood her in good stead, leading her to Jasper Kinsey’s table,
Peter Kinsey’s side, a vice-presidency in Kinsey Enterprises, Inc., and a
future as part of that wealthy, safe family. And if that future included
trading her body for Peter’s practiced caresses, then it could have been far
worse. He was never rough, never inconsiderate in their restrained petting, and
she was very skilled in simulating responses that left him convinced she would
be a mass of passion when they finally made love, and that he would be capable
of satisfying her as no man had ever had. And in a way, he would. She loved the
holding part of sex, the gentle stroking that preceded and followed the act,
the feeling of safety cradled in his arms. If her limited experience in making
love had left her cold and removed, she knew well enough how to disguise that
fact, could always disguise that fact with her actress’s ability.
Or at least she
had been up till now. Her one experience a few years earlier had been
unpleasant and undignified, but her partner, a self-satisfied lawyer named
Philip Mercer, had been convinced of his prowess. She could convince Peter just
as easily. Rickford Lincoln might prove to be a different matter.
"Jessica, are you in there?” Jasper Kinsey’s bluff tones were unmistakable, and for a brief, mad moment Jessica
considered diving under the desk. Jilly was long gone, no longer able to run
interference for her, and Peter must have failed in his bid to distract his
father’s attention.
Quickly she ran
a nervous hand across her dry face. Just what she needed—a confrontation with
old Jasper’s far-too-observant eyes.
Of course she
had no time to duck. She dropped her hand, raised her head and presented her
cool, Snow Queen smile to her future father-in-law and current boss as he
strode into her office.
"There you are,
Jessica,” he said in an accusing voice. "Peter was trying to tell me some
nonsense about you being tied up. This is an important weekend; I don’t need to
tell you that.”
"No, Jasper, you
don’t need to tell me that,” she said evenly. "I’ll be coming out to the
Hamptons tomorrow morning, definitely before noon. I have a few things to clear
up.”
"Rick Lincoln is
coming out tonight.”
A small shiver
of distaste ran across her backbone, but her face was impassive as always. "I
know, Jasper. And he’ll be there for the entire weekend. I’m sure I won’t be
missed for the first night.”
"I wouldn’t be
sure of any such thing, Jessica. You’ve handled this merger very nicely, very
nicely indeed. Lincoln is ready to be landed like a fish on a line, and we need
to be certain you don’t let him wriggle off.”
Jasper gave her
what passed for a benevolent smile, but Jessica wasn’t fooled, even for a
moment. No one had said a word, not even the slightest hint had escaped that
anything more than corporate wheeling and dealing was expected of her. But
somehow, somewhere she had gotten the uneasy feeling that she was the
sacrificial lamb to be offered to Lincoln’s aging libido, with Jasper and Peter
Kinsey the benevolent bystanders. And the idea was destroying her almost
nonexistent appetite, robbing her of her sleep, and stringing her nerves out
until she was ready to scream.
But damn it, it
wasn’t their decision. It was her body. It had always been her choice how she
used it. It still would be. She wasn’t going out to the Hamptons until she
decided how she was going to handle things if push came to shove. After all,
what did one night mean when balanced with millions of dollars’ profit,
security and power for the rest of her life? She was more than adept at turning
her mind into a peaceful blank when the situation called for it.
"I know what’s
expected of me, Jasper,” she said in the cool, tranquil voice that was one of
her greatest assets, not sure of any such thing. "You can trust me to handle
this. Have I ever let you down?”
"No.” He granted
her that. "But what the hell’s keeping you from coming out to the house
tonight?”
Jessica’s thin
fingers clenched around the paperback book, and sudden inspiration struck. "I
promised Elyssa I’d see her,” she improvised quickly, always a gifted liar when
the situation called for it. "Of course, I can always call her and cancel.”
Jasper Kinsey
had two ambitions in life. One, to found a financial empire beyond his most
avaricious dreams. The realization of that ambition was tantamount to
impossible, given the scope of his greedy fantasies, and his second goal was
just as farfetched. He wanted to marry Elyssa MacDowell, a woman he’d coveted
for almost thirty years. He was no closer to her bed than he had been when he
first met her, when she was the child-bride of Hamilton MacDowell, but he never
gave up hope. His almost doglike devotion hadn’t interfered with his voracious
sex life, but Elyssa was still a weak point in Jasper Kinsey’s stalwart
defenses.
"No, no.” It was
an immediate about-face. "You go see Elyssa. But be with us in time for lunch,
Jessica. I’m going to have a hard enough time making excuses to Lincoln about
tonight.”
"Have Peter make
them for me,” she suggested.
Jasper gave her
a sharp, suspicious look, but she merely continued her distant composure. "I’ll
do that,” he said finally. "By eleven tomorrow, Jessica. I’m depending on
you.”
"You know that
you can.”
Jasper
specialized in abrupt departures. Jessica sat there, watching the empty
doorway, listening to the sound of his footsteps echoing down the deserted
hallways of Kinsey Enterprises on a late Friday afternoon.
The reprieve
made her almost dizzy with relief. She leaned back in her chair, weakly
grateful that fate had allowed her that last-minute inspiration. Elyssa had
already told her she was spending the weekend at her ex-husband’s town house.
Her calm, good sense and undemanding warmth would soothe away Jessica’s rough
edges, and Hamilton’s acerbic wit would brighten her up again. And she could
continue out to the Kinseys tomorrow morning feeling far more able to face the
decisions the coming night might or might not bring.
She picked up
The Slaughterer again, smiling fondly at Hamilton MacDowell’s bearded
photograph on the back cover. Matt Decker’s creator would provide the perfect
haven of rest and reflection that she so badly needed. Tossing the novel in her
purse, she pushed away from the desk and headed out into the dubious freedom of
the weekend.
Chapter Two
HAMILTON MACDOWELL was
a big, bluff, hearty bear of a man, witha mane of thick gray hair, a full beard, a stomach that attested to a life of
enjoying good food and the wit and soul of a bon vivant. He greeted Jessica
with an exuberant hug, crushing her against his body, towering over her Nordic
height, held her away and clucked his tongue.
"You looked
starved, my girl. Doesn’t Kinsey let you get anything to eat? I’m all for
pleasures of the flesh, but food is one of them. Woman cannot live by sex
alone.” He released her, long enough to turn to his ex-wife with the same
welcome, tinged with a melancholy sadness that always seemed to edge his
dealings with Elyssa MacDowell. "Elyssa, my love. You look absolutely
ravishing, as always.”
Elyssa smiled
faintly, used to Ham’s hyperbole, returned his kiss and settled comfortably
against him as he flung one beefy arm around her narrow shoulders to lead her
into the compact little town house they had shared for more than fifteen years.
Though in this case, Hamilton’s words were no exaggeration. Elyssa MacDowell
was quite simply stunning, her fifty-six years sitting on her with a grace and
beauty that magically seemed to increase with time. She was small, fine-boned
and slender, with silver-gray hair, cropped close to her head that had once
been silky black. Her eyes were a dark, liquid brown, her faintly lined brow
serene, her mouth gentle, her nature solid as a rock. She smiled up at her
ex-husband with real, uncomplicated love.
"I hope we
didn’t disrupt any plans, Ham,” she said in the low, well- modulated voice that
was part and parcel of her charm. "But Jessica has a case of terminal gloom,
and I decided it was our duty to try to cheer her up.”
"My pleasure,
darling, but how will young David feel about losing your company?”
"He’ll survive,”
Elyssa replied dryly, pulling out of his embrace with a grimace. "As long as
old Johnson doesn’t mind.”
"Touché,”
Hamilton said lightly. "It’s your business if you choose to become involved
with a man not much older than your son.”
"Yes, it is,” she replied, matching his lightness. "Just as it’s your
business if you choose to
become involved with a man old enough to be your father.”
Ham let out a
short bark of laughter. "Don’t let Johnson hear you say that. He prides himself
on his youthful appearance.”
"Is he here?”
Elyssa looked about her with distant curiosity.
"Heavens, no.
Have you forgotten that Springer is due sometime in the next few days? I have
no intention of rubbing salt into old wounds.”
Jessica looked
up, startled, from her perusal of the Picasso that adorned one wide, white wall
of the eclectic town house. "Your son is coming? I had no idea, Elyssa, or I
never would have intruded. I know how seldom you see him.”
"Hush, hush,
little one,” Hamilton murmured, the only human being who could call her that
and get away with it. "If he does happen to show up an added presence will only
ease matters. Springer and I have never gotten along, despite Elyssa’s best
efforts, and he’s only here under duress. I don’t really expect him for
another day or two, anyway. In the meantime, your presence this evening will be
a delightful respite. But you must promise to eat. When Elyssa called to tell
me you were coming along, I became positively inspired, and I won’t have you
insulting my boeuf en daube.”
"You know
perfectly well I don’t eat boeuf in any language,” Jessica replied tartly, her
first real smile of the day taking the sting out of her words. "I’ll have to
settle for cottage cheese and canned peaches.”
Hamilton
shuddered theatrically. "Try it and I’ll force-feed you, and I have little
doubt Elyssa will help. Have you ever heard of anorexia nervosa, darling? It’s
looming on the horizon if you don’t watch yourself.”
"Yes, I would love a drink,” Jessica said firmly, flinging her exhausted body down on the white sofa that
somehow never seemed to show a mark.
"Dubonnet
Blonde?” At her nod Hamilton bustled off in the direction of the kitchen. He already
knew Elyssa’s taste from their years of marriage. "And I’ve made a nice little
mustard chicken for you, darling. Nothing to compromise your high morals.” With
a little wave his burly figure disappeared into the kitchen.
"Why the
stricken face?” Elyssa questioned softly, ever observant.
"Just Ham’s
choice of words,” Jessica replied, giving herself a tiny shake. "My morals
don’t feel very uncompromised right now.”
Elyssa nodded,
used to Jessica’s frank speaking, knowing full well that she spoke so openly to
no one else. They had become friends when Jessica had first arrived at Kinsey
Enterprises, a cool, determined Snow Queen, just out of college and ready to
conquer the world. Elyssa was a major stockholder and one of Jasper Kinsey’s
oldest friends, a warm, bright lady with capabilities far exceeding her limited
social duties as the token woman on the board of trustees. For some reason
Jessica’s coolness and Elyssa’s warmth had blended, and their unlikely
friendship was the one real relationship Jessica could count on.
"Some problem
with the Lincoln merger?” Elyssa probed gently.
"Not
necessarily. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid,” Jessica said morosely, then
swiveled in her seat to look beseechingly up at her friend. "You don’t suppose
Peter and his father are planning to have me sleep with old Lincoln just to
cement the deal, do you?”
Elyssa
hesitated, clearly torn between honesty and a desire to reassure her. That
hesitation was answer enough, and her words did little to improve matters. "I
don’t really know. I think Jasper’s capable of turning a blind eye if it helps
business, but I don’t know about Peter. I do think he really loves you, and I
can’t believe he’d want anyone to hurt you. But my opinion isn’t the point.
What do you think?”
Jessica shrugged, the familiar black gloom and indecisiveness settling down around her. "I don’t know. I
suppose I’ll find out soon enough. We’re all going to be out at the summer
house this weekend; things should be pretty obvious by the time we get back to
the city. I don’t suppose I could talk you into coming with me.” It was a
forlorn hope, and reluctantly Elyssa shook her head.
"David’s got all
sorts of plans for this weekend, and you know how possessive he can be,” she
said apologetically.
Jessica knew
full well how possessive David Linnell could be, and not for the first time she
wondered how Elyssa could stand his petulant displays of temper. Of course,
David Linnell was thirty-nine years old, arrogant and extremely attractive. And
after Hamilton’s dereliction Elyssa somehow needed that demanding
possessiveness that Jessica found
infuriating. She managed a tight smile. "Of course. But what about your
son, if and when he shows up?”
A small frown
wrinkled Elyssa’s wide, usually serene brow. "We’ll work it out,” she said
vaguely, and Jessica repressed a disbelieving snort. If David had his way,
Elyssa would sever all her relationships with friends and family, existing only
for his selfish wants. He and Jessica frankly and quietly detested each other,
he recognizing her as a major threat to his control, and she despising his
petty demands. How the introduction of Elyssa’s adored son into the
ten-month-long relationship would change it remained to be seen.
Hamilton bustled
in, his imposing paunch swathed in a white apron, bearing a tray of drinks with
a silver frame tucked under one arm. Serving the drinks with a flourish, he
whipped out the framed picture, setting it on the polished cherry end table
with a fond swipe at an imaginary speck of dust. "Have you ever seen my son,
Jessica?” he inquired with intense paternal pride.
Jessica stared
at the silver-framed photograph, her mouth hanging open. "That’s Springer?” she
inquired faintly. He was laughing at the photographer, the black hair ruffled
by a brazen wind, the eyes crinkled against the bright sunlight, a warmth and
light love in those immensely dark eyes. You could fall into those eyes, she
thought dazedly, fall into those arms, get lost in that beautiful mouth.
She quickly
summoned forth her coolest smile. "He’s very good- looking,” she said
distantly. "How come you don’t keep his picture around?”
Hamilton
laughed. "Are you kidding? If any of my friends took a look at that picture,
they’d be showing up at any hour of the day or night, and somehow I don’t think
Springer would take to that too well. He only comes here under duress as it
is—I doubt he’d care for the kind of attention my friends would give him.”
"I take it he
doesn’t approve of you,” she said delicately.
Hamilton
shrugged. "You could say so, indeed.” Immediately he changed the subject.
"That’s a great photograph, isn’t it? Elyssa took it a couple of years ago when
she went out to visit him. That’s why he looks so loving.” There was no
bitterness in Ham’s voice, only a deep sadness, and Elyssa reached out a
slender, ring-less hand to touch his arm in silent, loving sympathy.
"Don’t,
darling,” she said softly, and Ham smiled, his ruddy face accepting. "You’ll
make peace with him. Sooner or later,” she added.
He nodded,
placing one meaty hand over her slender one. "Ever the trusting, loving one,
eh, Elyssa? I’ll have to believe you’re right in this case. I just hope it’s
sooner, rather than later.” He gave himself a shake, rather like a massive
Saint Bernard shedding water, and beamed at Jessica. "We’re doing a fine job of
cheering Jessica up. What do you say the
three of us kill a couple of bottles of champagne? We need to celebrateyour upcoming engagement, at the very least, and my upcoming rapprochement
with my son. And what do we have to celebrate for you, Elyssa?”
"I’m thinking of
moving in with David,” she said, her calm, even voice unruffled.
Ham winced, and
even Jessica was hard put to look properly enthusiastic. "Champagne sounds
like a wonderful idea,” she said finally.
"And you’ll
sleep over, Jessica? Elyssa was planning on spending tonight anyway, and you
know there’s always room for you. I don’t want a drunken lady wandering around
town unescorted.”
She had done it
often enough, with the entertaining addition of Hamilton’s current lover, the
elderly and charmingly malicious Johnson Endicott, and Jessica nodded her
agreement. "But we’ll have to send out for more champagne, Ham,” Elyssa warned.
"It’ll take more than that to put a dent in the sobriety of two hard-boiled
women like us.”
"Hard-boiled,”
Ham scoffed. "Maybe you are, Elyssa, but Jessica’s a frail lamb beneath her
disguise.” His voice was absolutely serious, and Jessica stared at him sharply,
her eyes narrowed. But all Ham did was smile back at her blandly. "Don’t give
me that icy look, my Norse goddess. You don’t fool me for a moment. And when
you get back from cavorting with your soulless fiancé, I want you to come over
and meet my son. Maybe he can put some color in your cheeks and some meat on
your bones. Of course, I’m not saying whose meat.”
"Ham!” Elyssa
reproved on a muffled laugh. "Besides, I think you’ll find Springer’s changed.”
"What, he’s no
longer screwing every woman in sight?” his father scoffed. "I thought he’d
still be trying to prove he’s not the man his father is.”
"I think, I
hope, I pray he’s coming to terms with who and what you and he are,” Elyssa
said slowly.
"He’s had more
than enough time,” Hamilton grumbled. "I’ll order more champagne. Moet or
Piper?”
"Royalties still
as good as ever, Ham?” Jessica inquired lazily from her perch on the
comfortable sofa.
Ham shrugged
self-deprecatingly. "What can I say? The world seems to be enamored of the
Slaughterer and his bloodthirsty adventures. As long as I turn out one every
two months I can safely keep us all in imported champagne.”
Jessica lifted
her glass. "Here’s to the Slaughterer.”
Ham responded.
"And here’s to my favorite ladies.”
Elyssa raised
her white wine. "And here’s to happy endings.”
"Unrealistic, my
dear,” said her ex-husband.
"Wishful thinking,” said her friend. And they
both drank.