Megan's Mate

  whole package.”

  “That's right.” Nathaniel pulled out a cigar, lit it. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Can't say as I do.” Sloan grinned and accepted the cigar Nathaniel belatedly offered him. “You might, though. My sister's a damn stubborn woman. But seeing as you're almost a member of the family, I'll be glad to offer any help.”

  A smile finally twitched at Nathaniel's mouth. “Thanks, but I'd like to handle it on my own.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sloan settled back to enjoy the ride.

  “Are you sure you're all right?”

  Megan had no more than stepped in the door of The Towers when she found herself surrounded by con­cern.

  “I'm fine, really.” Her protests hadn't prevented the Calhouns from herding her into the family kitchen and plying her with tea and sympathy. “This has gotten blown out of proportion.”

  “When somebody messes with one of us,” C.C. corrected, “they mess with all of us.”

  She glanced outside, where the children were play­ing happily in the yard. “I appreciate it. Really. But I don't think there's anything more to worry about.”

  “There won't be.” Colleen stepped into the room, her gaze scanning each face in turn. “What are you all doing in here, smothering the girl? Get out.”

  “Aunt Colleen...” Coco began.

  “Out, I said, all of you. You, go back to your kitchen and flirt with that big Dutchman you've got sneaking into your room at night.”

  “Why, I—”

  “Go. And you.” Now her cane gestured threaten­ingly at Amanda. “You've got a hotel to run, don't you? Go weed some flowers,” she ordered Suzanna. “And you go tinker with an engine.” She flicked her gaze from C.C. to Lilah.

  “Tougher with me, isn't it, Auntie?” Lilah said la­zily.

  “Take a nap,” Colleen snapped.

  “Got me,” Lilah said with a sigh. “Come on, la­dies, we've been dismissed.”

  Satisfied when the door swung shut behind them, Colleen sat heavily at the table. “Get me some of that tea,” she ordered Megan. “See that it's hot.”

  Though she moved to obey, Megan wasn't cowed. “Do you always find rudeness works to your advan­tage, Miss Calhoun?”

  “That, old age, and a hefty portfolio.” She took the tea Megan set in front of her, sipped, nodded grudg­ingly when she found it hot and strong. “Now then, sit down and listen to what I have to say. And don't prim your mouth at me, young lady.”

  “I'm very fond of Coco,” Megan told her. “You embarrassed her.”

  “Embarrassed her? Ha! She and that tattooed hulk have been mooning around after each other for days. Gave her a prod is what I did.” But she eyed Megan craftily. “Loyal when if s deserved, are you?”

  “lam.”

  “And so am I. I made a few calls this morning, to some friends in Boston. Influential friends. Hush,” she ordered when Megan started to speak. “Detest politics myself, but it's often necessary to dance with the devil. Dumont should be being made aware, at this moment, that any contact with you, or your son, will fatally jeopardize his ambitions. He will not trouble you again.”

  Megan pressed her lips together. She wanted her voice to be steady. No matter what she had said, how she had pretended, there had been an icy fear, like a cold ax balanced over her head, of what Baxter might do. In one stroke, Colleen had removed it.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I loathe bullies. I particularly loathe bullies who interfere with the contentment of my family.”

  “I'm not your family,” Megan said softly.

  “Ha! Think again. You stuck your toe in Calhoun waters, girl. We're like quicksand. You're a Calhoun now, and you're stuck.”

  Tears rushed into her eyes, blinding her. “Miss Calhoun—” Megan's words were cut off by the im­patient rap of Colleen's cane. After a sniffle, Megan began again. “Aunt Colleen,” she corrected, under­standing. “I'm very grateful.”

  “So you should be.” Colleen coughed to clear her own husky voice. Then she raised it to a shout. “Come back in here, the lot of you! Stop listening at the door!”

  It swung open, Coco leading the way. She walked to Colleen, bent, kissed the papery cheek.

  “Stop all this nonsense.” She waved her grand-nieces away. “I want the girl to tell me how that strapping young man tossed that bully in the drink.”

  Megan laughed, wiped her eyes. “He choked him first.”

  “Ha!” Colleen rapped her cane in appreciation. “Don't spare the details.”

  Chapter 9

  B. behaving oddly. Since return to island for summer she is absentminded, daydreaming. Ar­rived late for tea, forgot luncheon appointment. Intolerable. Unrest in Mexico annoying. Dis­missed valet. Excess starch in shirts.

  Unbelievable, Megan thought, staring at the notes Fergus had written in his crabbed hand beside stock quotations. He could speak of his wife, a potential war and his valet in the same faintly irritated tone. What a miserable life Bianca must have had. How terrible to be trapped in a marriage, ruled by a despot and with­out any power to captain your own destiny.

  How much worse, she thought, if Bianca had loved him.

  As she often did in the quiet hours before sleep, Megan flipped through the pages to the series of numbers. She had time now to regret that she'd never made it to the library.

  Or perhaps Amanda was a better bet. Amanda might know whether Fergus had had foreign bank ac­counts, safe-deposit boxes.

  Peering down, she wondered whether that was the answer. The man had had homes in Maine and in New York. These could be the numbers of various safe-deposit boxes. Even combinations to safes he'd kept in his homes.

  That idea appealed to her, a straightforward an­swer to a small but nagging puzzle. A man as ob­sessed with his wealth and the making of money as Fergus Calhoun had been would very likely have kept a few secret stores.

  Wouldn't it be fantastic, she thought, if there was some dusty deposit box in an old bank vault? Un­opened all these years, she imagined. The key lost or discarded. The contents? Oh...priceless rubies or fat, negotiable bonds. A single faded photograph. A lock of hair wound with a gold ribbon.

  She rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. “Imag­ination's in gear, Megan,” she murmured. “Too bad it's so farfetched.”

  “What is?”

  She jumped like a rabbit, her glasses sliding down to her chin. “Damn. Nathaniel.”

  He was grinning as he closed and locked the terrace doors at his back. “I thought you'd be happy to see me.”

  “I am. But you didn't have to sneak up on me that way.”

  “When a man comes through a woman's window at night, he's supposed to sneak.”

  She shoved her glasses back in place. “They're doors.”

  “And you're too literal.” He leaned over the back of the chair where she sat and kissed her like a starv­ing man. “I'm glad you talk to yourself.”

  “I do not.”

  “You were, just now. That's why I decided to stop watching you and come in.” He strolled to the hall­way door, locked it. “You looked incredibly sexy sit­ting there at your neat little desk, your hair scooped up, your glasses sliding down your nose. In that cute, no-nonsense robe.”

  She wished heartily that the practical terry cloth could transform into silk and lace. But she had noth­ing seductive to adorn herself in, and had settled for the robe and Coco's perfume.

  “I didn't think you were coming after all. It's get­ting late.”

  “I figured there'd be some hoopla over yesterday, and that you'd need to settle Kevin for the night. He didn't get wind of it, did he?”

  “No.” It touched her that he would ask, that it would matter to him. “None of the children know. Everyone else has been wonderful. It's like thinking you're alone in a battle and then finding yourself sur­rounded by a circle of shields.” She smiled, tilted her head. “Are you holding something behind your back?”

  His brows rose,
as if in surprise. “Apparently I am.” He drew out a peony, a twin to the one he'd given her before. “'A rose,'“ he said, “'without a thorn.'“

  He crossed to her as he spoke, and all she could think for one awed moment was that this man, this fascinating man, wanted her. He started to take its faded twin from the bud vase on her desk.

  “Don't.” She felt foolish, but stayed his hand. “Don't throw it out.”

  “Sentimental, Meg?” Moved that she had kept his token, he slipped the new bud in with the old. “Did you sit here, working late, looking at the flower and thinking of me?”

  “I might have.” She couldn't fight the smile in his eyes. “Yes, I thought of you. Not always kindly.”

  “Thinking's enough.” He lifted her hand, kissed her palm. “Nearly.” To her surprise, he plucked her from the chair, sat himself down and nestled her in his lap. “But this is a whole lot better.”

  It seemed foolish to disagree, so she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Everyone's getting prepped for the big Fourth of July celebration,” she told him idly. “Coco and Dutch are arguing about recipes for barbecue sauce and the kids are bitterly disappointed we won't let them have small, colorful bombs to set off.”

  “They'll end up making two kinds of sauce and asking everyone to take sides.” It was nice sitting like this, he thought, alone and quiet at the end of the day. “And the kids won't be disappointed after they see the fireworks display Trent organized.”

  Kevin had talked of nothing else all evening, she re­membered. “I've heard it's going to be quite a show.”

  “Count on it. This bunch won't do anything half­way. Like fireworks, do you, sugar?”

  “Almost as much as the kids.” She laughed and snuggled against him. “I can't believe it's July al­ready. All I have to do is get about two dozen things out of the way so I can compete in the great barbecue showdown, keep the kids from setting themselves on fire and enjoy the show.”

  “Business first,” he murmured. “Working on Fer­gus's book?”

  “Mmm-hmm... I had no idea how much of a for­tune he'd amassed, or how little he considered peo­ple. Look here.” She tapped her finger to the page. “Whenever he made a note about Bianca, it's as if she were a servant or, worse, a possession. He checked over the household accounts every day, to the penny. There's a notation about how he docked the cook thirty-three cents for a kitchen discrepancy.”

  “A lot of people think more of money than souk.” He flipped idly through the book. “I can be sure you're not sitting on my lap because of my bank bal­ance—since you know it down to the last nickel.”

  “You're in the black.”

  “Barely.”

  “Cash flow is usually thin the first few years in any business—and when you add in the outlay in equip­ment you've purchased, the down payment for the cottage, insurance premiums and licensing fees—”

  “God, I love it when you talk profit and loss.” Let­ting the book close, he nipped playfully at her ear. “Talk to me about checks and balances, or quarterly returns. Quarterly returns make me crazy.”

  “Then you'll be happy to know you and Holt un­derestimated your federal payments.”

  “Mmm...” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You owe the government another two hundred and thirty dollars, which can be added to your next quar­ter due, or, more wisely, I can file an amended re­turn.”

  He swore halfheartedly. “How come we have to pay them in advance, anyway?”

  She gave him a light kiss in sympathy. “Because, Nathaniel, if you don't, the IRS will make your life a living hell. I'm here to save you from them. I'm also, if your system can take the excitement, going to sug­gest you open a Keogh—a retirement account for the self-employed.”

  “Retirement? Hell, Meg, I'm thirty-three.”

  “And not getting a day younger. Do you know what the cost-of-living projections are for your golden years, Mr. Fury?”

  “I changed my mind. I don't like it when you talk accountant to me.”

  “It's also good tax sense,” she persisted. “The money you put in won't be taxable until you're of re­tirement age. When, usually, your bracket is lower. Besides, planning for the future might not be roman­tic, but it is rewarding.”

  He slid a hand under the terry cloth. “I'd rather have instant gratification.”

  Her pulse scrambled. “I have the necessary form.”

  “Damn right you do.”

  “For the Keogh. All you need to— Oh.” The terry cloth parted like water under his clever hands. She gasped, shuddered, melted. “How did you do that?”

  “Come to bed.” He lifted her. “I'll show you.”

  Just past dawn, Nathaniel strolled down the curve of the terrace steps, his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. Dutch, in a similar pose, de­scended the opposite curve, both men stopped dead when they met in the center.

  They stared, swore.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” Dutch demanded.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I live here, remember?”

  Nathaniel inclined his head. “You live down there.” He pointed toward the kitchen level.

  “I'm taking the air,” Dutch said, after a fumble for inspiration.

  “Me too.”

  Dutch flicked a glance toward Megan's terrace. Nathaniel gave Coco's a studying look. Each decided to leave well enough alone.

  “Well, then. Suppose you want some breakfast.”

  Nathaniel ran his tongue around his teeth. “I could do with some.”

  “Come on, can't dawdle out here all morning.”

  Relieved with the solution, they walked down to­gether in perfect agreement.

  She overslept. It was a breach in character that had her racing out of her room, still buttoning her blouse. She stopped to peek into Kevin's bedroom, spotted the haphazardly made bed and sighed.

  Everyone was up and about, it seemed, but her.

  She made a dash toward her office, crossing break­fast with her son off her list of small pleasures for the day.

  “Oh, dear.” Coco fluttered her hands when Megan nearly mowed her down in the lobby. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I'm sorry. I'm just late.”

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  “No.” Megan caught her breath. “I meant I was late for work.”

  “Oh, my, I thought there was a problem. I just this minute left a memo on your desk. Go ahead in, dear, I don't want to hold you up.”

  “But—” Megan found herself addressing Coco's retreating back, so she turned into her office to read the message.

  Coco's idea of an interoffice memo was something less than professional.

  Megan, dear, I hope you slept well. There's fresh coffee in your machine, and I've left you a nice basket of muffins. You really shouldn't skip breakfast. Kevin ate like a young wolf. It's so re­warding to see a boy enjoy his food. He and Nate will be back in a few hours. Don't work too hard.

  Love, Coco

  P.S. The cards say you have two important ques­tions to answer. One with your heart, one with your head. Isn't that interesting?

  Megan blew out a breath, and was reading the memo again when Amanda popped in. “Got a min­ute?”

  “Sure.” She handed over the paper she held. “Do you think you could interpret this for me?”

  “Ah, one of Aunt Coco's convoluted messages.” Lips pursed, Amanda studied it. “Well, the coffee and muff ins are easy.”

  “I got that part.” In fact, Megan helped herself to both. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks, she already delivered mine. Kevin ate a good breakfast. I can vouch for that. When I saw him, he was scarfing down French toast, with Na­thaniel battling him for the last piece.”

  Megan bobbled her coffee. “Nathaniel was here for breakfast?”

  “Eating and charming Aunt Coco, while telling Kevin some story about a giant squid
. They'll be back in a few hours,” she continued, tapping the note, “because Kevin talked Nate into taking him out on th& tour again. It didn't take much talking,” she added with a smile. “And we didn't think you'd mind.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And the bit about the cards defies interpretation. That's pure Aunt Coco.” Amanda set the memo down again. “It's spooky, though, just how often she hits the mark. Been asked any questions lately?”

  “No, nothing in particular.”

  Amanda thought of what Sloan had related to her about Nathaniel's feelings. “Are you sure?”

  “Hmmm? Yes. I was thinking about Fergus's book. I suppose it could loosely be considered a question. At least there's one I want to ask you.”

  Amanda made herself comfortable. “Shoot.”

  “The numbers in the back. I mentioned them be­fore.” She opened a file, handing a copy of the list to Amanda. “I was wondering if they might be pass­book numbers, or safe-deposit boxes, safe combina­tions. Lot numbers, maybe, on some real estate deal?” She moved her shoulders. “I know it's silly to get so hung up on them.”

  “No.” Amanda waved the notion away. “I know just what you mean. I hate it when things don't fit into place. We went through most of the papers from this year when we were looking for clues to find the necklace. I don't recall anything that these figures might connect to, but I can look through the material again.”

  “Let me do it,” Megan said quickly. “I feel like it's my baby.”

  “Glad to. I've got more than enough on my plate, and with the big holiday tomorrow, barely time to clean up. Everything you'd want is in the storeroom under Bianca's tower room. We've got it all boxed ac­cording to year and content, but it's still a nasty, time-consuming job.”

  “I live for nasty, time-consuming jobs.”

  “Then you'll be in heaven. Megan, I hate to ask, but it's the nanny's day off, and Sloan's up to his ears in plywood or something. We've been playing pass-the-babies this morning, but I've got an appointment in the village this