Megan's Mate, Page 8

  way to do it right.”

  It was impossible to stay irritated with him, espe­cially when she remembered what Coco had told her. “You lost your mother when you were young. Ah... Coco mentioned it.”

  “Coco's been mentioning a lot of things.”

  “She didn't mean any harm. You know how she is, better than I. She cares so much about people, and wants to see them...”

  “Lined up two by two? Yeah, I know her. She picked you out for me.”

  “She—” Words failed her. “That's ridiculous.”

  “Not to Coco.” He steered easily around a curve. “Of course, she doesn't know that I know she's al­ready got me scheduled to go down on one knee.”

  “It's fortunate, isn't it, that you're forewarned?”

  Her indignant tone had a smile twitching at his lips. “Sure is. She's been singing your praises for months. And you almost live up to the advance publicity.”

  She hissed like a snake and turned to him. His grin, and the absurdity of the situation, changed indigna­tion to amusement. “Thank you.” She stretched out her legs, leaned back and decided to enjoy the ride. “I'd hate to have disappointed you.”

  “Oh, you didn't, sugar.”

  “I've been told you're mysterious, romantic and charming.”

  “And?”

  “You almost live up to the advance publicity.”

  “Sugar—” he took her hand and kissed it lavishly “—I can be a lot better.”

  “I'm sure you can.” She drew her hand away, re­fusing to acknowledge the rippling thrill up her arm. “If I wasn't so fond of her, I'd be annoyed. But she's so kind.”

  “She has the truest heart of anyone I've ever met. I used to wish she was my mother.”

  “I'm sorry.” Before she could resist the urge, Me­gan laid a hand on his. “It must have been so hard, losing your mother when you were only a child.”

  “It's all right. It was a long time ago.” Much too long for him to grieve. “I still remember seeing Coco in the village, or when I'd tag along with Holt to take fish up to The Towers. There she'd be, this gorgeous woman—looked like a queen. Never knew what color her hair would be from one week to the next.”

  “She's a brunette today,” Megan said, and made him laugh.

  “First woman I ever fell for. She came to the house a couple times, read my old man the riot act about his drinking. Guess she thought if he was sober he wouldn't knock me around so much.” He took his eyes off the road again, met hers. “I imagine she mentioned that, too?”

  “Yes.” Uncomfortable, Megan looked away. “I'm sony, Nathaniel. I hate when people discuss me, no matter how good their intentions. It's so intrusive.”

  “I'm not that sensitive, Meg. Everybody knew what my old man was like.” He could remember, too well, the pitying looks, the glances that slid uneasily away. “It bothered me back then, but not anymore.”

  She struggled to find the right words. “Did Coco-did it do any good?”

  He was silent a moment, staring out at the lowering sun and the bloodred light it poured into the water. “He was afraid of her, so he beat the hell out of me when she left.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I'd just as soon she didn't know that.”

  “No.” Megan had to swallow the hot tears lodged in her throat. “I won't tell her. That's why you ran away to sea, isn't it? To get away from him.”

  “That's one of the reasons.” He reached over, ran a fingertip down her cheek. “You know, if I'd fig­ured out the way to get to you was to tell you I'd taken a strap a few times, I'd have brought it up sooner.”

  “It's nothing to joke about.” Megan's voice was low and furious. “There's no excuse for treating a child that way.”

  “Hey, I lived through it.”

  “Did you?” She shifted back to him, eyes steady. “Did you ever stop hating him?”

  “No.” He said it quietly. “No, I didn't. But I stopped letting it be important, and maybe that's healthier.” He stopped the car in front of The Tow­ers, turned to her. “Someone hurts you, in a permanent way, you don't forget it. But the best revenge is seeing that it doesn't matter.”

  “You're talking about Kevin's father, and it's not at all the same. I wasn't a helpless child.”

  “Depends on where you draw the line between helpless and innocent.” Nathaniel opened the car door. “I'll carry Kevin in for you.”

  “You don't have to.” She hurried out herself, but Nathaniel already had the boy in his arms.

  They stood there for a moment, in the last glow of the day, the boy between them, his head resting se­curely on Nathaniel's shoulder, dark hair to dark hair, honed muscle to young limbs.

  Something locked deep inside her swelled, tried to burst free. She sighed it away, stroked a hand over her son's back and felt the steady rhythm of his breath­ing.

  “He's had a long day.”

  “So have you, Meg. There are shadows under your eyes. Since that means you didn't sleep any better than I did last night, I can't say I mind seeing them there.”

  It was hard, she thought, so very hard, to keep pulling away from the current that drew her to him. “I'm not ready for this, Nathaniel.”

  “Sometimes a wind comes up, blows you off course. You're not ready for it, but if you're lucky, you end up in a more interesting place than you'd planned.”

  “I don't like to depend on luck.”

  “Thaf s okay. I do.” He shifted the boy more com­fortably, and carried him to the house.

  Chapter 6

  “I don't see what all the damn to-do's about,” Dutch grumbled as he whipped a delicate egg froth for his angel food cake surprise.

  “Trenton St. James II is a member of the family.” Running on nerves, Coco checked the temperature on her prime rib. She had a dozen things to deal with since the cucumber facial she'd indulged in had thrown off her timetable. “And the president of the St. James hotels.” Satisfied that the beef was coming along nicely, she basted her roast duck. “As this is his first visit to The Retreat, it's important that everything run smoothly.”

  “Some rich bastard coming around to freeload.”

  “Mr. Van Horne!” Coco's heart lurched. After six months, she knew she shouldn't be shocked by the man. But, really. “I've known Mr. St. James for... well, a great number of years. I can assure you he is a successful businessman, an entrepreneur. Not a free­loader.”

  Dutch sniffed, gave Coco the once-over. She'd done herself up good and proper, he noted. The fancy-shmancy dress glittered and flowed down, stopping plenty short to show off her legs. Her cheeks were all pink, too. And he didn't think it was from kitchen heat. His lips curled back in a sneer.

  “So what's he, your boyfriend?”

  The pink deepened to rose. “Certainly not. A woman of my...experience doesn't have boy­friends.” Surreptitiously she checked her face in the stainless-steel exhaust hood on the stove. “Beaux, perhaps.”

  Beaux. Ha! “I hear he's been married four times and pays enough alimony to balance the national debt. You looking to be number five?”

  Speechless, Coco pressed a hand to her heart. “You are—” She stumbled, stuttered, over the words. “Impossibly rude. Impossibly crude.”

  “Hey, ain't none of my never-mind if you want to land yourself a rich fish.”

  She squeaked. Though the rolling temper that caused red dots to swim in front of her eyes appalled her—she. was, after all, a civilized woman—she surged forward to ram a coral-tipped nail into his massive chest. “I will not tolerate any more of your insults.”

  “Yeah?” He poked her right back. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

  She leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose. “I will fire you.”

  “Now that'll break my heart. Go ahead, fancy face, give me the boot. See how you get by with tonight's dinner rush.”

  “I assure you, I will 'get by' delightfully.” Her heart was beating too fast. Coco wondered it didn't soar right out of her breast.
>
  “Like hell.” He hated her perfume. Hated that it made his nostrils twitch and his mouth water. “When I came on board, you were barely treading water.”

  She couldn't get her breath, simply couldn't. “This kitchen doesn't need you, Mr. Van Horne. And nei­ther do I.”

  “You need me plenty.” How had his hands gotten onto her shoulders? Why were hers pressed to his chest? The hell with how or why, he thought. He'd show her what was what.

  Her eyes popped hard when his hard, sneering mouth crushed down on hers in a very thorough kiss. But she didn't see a thing. Her world, so beautifully secure, tilted under her feet. That was why—natural­ly that was why—she clung to him.

  She would slap his face. She certainly would.

  In just a few minutes.

  Damn women, Dutch thought. Damn them all. Es­pecially tall, curvy, sweet-smelling females with lips like... cooking cherries. He'd always had a weakness for tartness.

  He jerked her away, but kept his big hands firm on her shoulders. “Let's get something straight....” he began.

  “Now look here___” she said at the same time.

  They both leaped apart like guilty children when the kitchen door swung open.

  Megan stood frozen in the doorway, her jaw drop­ping. Surely she hadn't seen what she thought she'd seen. Coco was checking the oven, and Dutch was measuring flour into a bowl. They couldn't have been.. .embracing. Yet both of them were a rather startling shade of pink.

  “Excuse me,” she managed. “I'm sorry to, ah...”

  “Oh, Megan, dear.” Flustered, Coco patted her hair. She was tingling, she realized. From embarrass­ment—and annoyance, she assured herself. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to check a couple of the kitchen ex­penses.” She was still goggling, her eyes shifting from Coco to Dutch and back. The tension in the room was thicker than Coco's split-pea soup. “But if you're busy, we can do it later.”

  “Nonsense.” Coco wiped her sweaty palms on her apron. “We're just a little frantic preparing for Tren­ton's arrival.”

  “Trenton? Oh, I'd forgotten. Trent's father's ex­pected.” She was cautiously backing out of the room. “We don't need to do this now.”

  “No, no.” Oh, Lord, Coco thought, don't leave me. “Now's a perfect time. We're under control here. Let's do it in your office, shall we?” She took Megan firmly by the arm. “Mr. Van Horne can handle things for a few minutes.” Without waiting for his assent, she hurried from the room. “Details, details,” Coco said gaily, and clung to Megan as though she were a life raft in a churning sea. “It seems the more you handle, the more there are.”

  “Coco, are you all right?”

  “Oh, of course.” But she pressed a hand to her heart. “Just a little contretemps with Mr. Van Horne. But that's nothing I can't deal with.” She hoped. “How are your accounts coming along, dear? I must say I'd hoped you'd find time to glance at Fergus's book.”

  “Actually, I have-”

  “Not that we want you working too hard.” With the buzz going on in Coco's head, she didn't hear a word Megan said. “We want you to feel right at home here, to enjoy yourself. To relax. After all the trouble and excitement last year, we all want to relax. I don't think any of us could stand any more crises.”

  “I do not have, nor do I require, a reservation.”

  The crackling, irate voice stopped Coco in her tracks. The becoming flush in her cheeks faded to a dead white.

  “Dear God, no. It can't be.”

  “Coco?” Megan took a firmer grip on Coco's arm. She felt the tremor and wondered if she could hold the woman up if she fainted.

  “Young man.” The voice rose, echoing off the walls. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Aunt Colleen,” Coco said in a shaky whisper. She let go one last shuddering moan, drew in a bracing breath, then walked bravely into the lobby. “Aunt Colleen,” she said in an entirely different tone. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “Shock, you mean.” Colleen accepted her niece's kiss, then rapped her cane on the floor. She was tall, thin as a rail and formidable as iron in a raw-silk suit and pearls as white as her hair. “I see you've filled the place with strangers. Better to have it burned to the ground. Tell this insolent boy to have my bags taken up.”

  “Of course.” Coco gestured for a bellman herself. “In the family wing, second floor, first room on the right,” she instructed.

  “And don't toss those bags around, boy.” Colleen leaned on her gold-tipped cane and studied Megan, “Who's this?”

  “You remember Megan, Aunt Colleen. Sloan's sis­ter? You met at Amanda's wedding.”

  “Yes, yes.” Colleen's eyes narrowed, measured, “Got a son, don't you?” Colleen knew all there was to know about Kevin. Had made it her business to know.

  “Yes, I do. It's nice to see you again, Miss Calhoun.”

  “Ha. You'd be the only one of this lot who thinks so.” Ignoring them both, she walked to Bianca's por­trait, studied it and the emeralds glistening in their case. She sighed, but so quietly no one could hear.

  “I want brandy, Cordelia, before I take a look at what you've done to this place.”

  “Of course. We'll just go into the family wing. Me­gan, please, join us.”

  It was impossible to deny the plea in Coco's eyes.

  A few moments later, they had settled into the fam­ily parlor. Here, the wallpaper was still faded, peeling in spots. There were scars on the floor in front of the fireplace where errant embers had seared and burned.

  “Nothing's changed here, I see.” Colleen sat like a queen in a wing chair.

  “We've concentrated on the hotel wing.” Nervous and babbling, Coco poured brandy. “Now that it's done, we're beginning renovations. Two of the bed­rooms are finished. And the nursery's lovely.”

  “Humph.” She'd come specifically to see the chil­dren—and only secondarily to drive Coco mad.

  “Where is everyone? I come to see my family and find nothing but strangers.”

  “They'll be along. We're having a dinner party to­night, Aunt Colleen.” Coco kept the brilliant smile plastered on her face. “Trent's father's joining us for a few days.”

  “Aging playboy,” Colleen mumbled into her brandy. “You.” She pointed at Megan. “Accoun­tant, aren't you?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Megan's a whiz with figures,” Coco said desper­ately. “We're so grateful she's here. And Kevin, too, of course. He's a darling boy.”

  “I'm talking to the girl, Cordelia. Go fuss in the kitchen.”

  “But-”

  “Go on, go on.”

  With an apologetic look for Megan, Coco fled.

  “The boy'll be nine soon?”

  “Yes, in a couple of months.” She was prepared, braced, for a scathing comment on his lineage.

  Tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair, Col­leen nodded. “Get along with Suzanna's brood, does he?”

  “Very well. They've rarely been apart since we ar­rived.” Megan did her best not to squirm. “It's been wonderful for him. And for me.”

  “Dumont bothering you?”

  Megan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don't be a fool, girl, I asked if that excuse for a human being has been bothering you.”

  Megan's spine straightened like a steel rod. “No. I haven't seen or heard from Baxter since before Kevin was born.”

  “You will.” Colken scowled and leaned forward. She wanted to get a handle on this Megan O'Riley. “He's been making inquiries.”

  Megan's fingers clenched on the snifter of brandy. “I don't understand.”

  “Poking his nose in, asking questions.” Colleen gave her cane an imperious thump.

  “How do you know?”

  “I keep my ear to the ground when it comes to family.” Eyes bright, Colleen waited for a reaction, got none. “You moved here, didn't you? Your son's been accepted as Alex and Jenny—and Christian's— brother.”

  Ice was formi
ng in Megan's stomach, thin, brittle strips of it. “That has nothing to do with him.”

  “Don't be a fool. A man like Dumont thinks the world revolves around him. His eye's on politics, girl, and the way that particular circus is running, a few well-chosen words from you to the right reporter...” The idea was pleasant enough to make Colleen smile. “Well, his road to Washington would be a steeper climb.”

  “I've no intention of going to the press, of expos­ing Kevin to public attention.”

  “Wise.” Colleen sipped again. “A pity, but wise. You tell me if he tries anything. I'd like to tangle with him again.”

  “I can handle it myself.”

  Colleen lifted one snowy brow. “Perhaps you can.”

  “How come I have to wear a dumb tie?” Kevin squirmed while Megan fumbled with the knot. Her fingers had been stiff and cold ever since her talk with Colleen.

  “Because it's a special dinner and you need to look your best.”

  “Ties are stupid. I bet Alex doesn't have to wear a stupid tie.”

  “I don't know what Alex is wearing,” Megan said, with the last of her patience. “But you're doing as you're told.”

  The sharp tone, rarely heard, had his bottom lip poking out. “I'd rather have pizza.”

  “Well, you're not having pizza. Damn it, Kevin, hold still!”

  “It's choking me.”

  “I'm going to choke you in a minute.” She blew her hair out of her eyes and secured the knot. “There. You look very handsome.”

  “I look like a dork.”

  “Fine, you look like a dork. Now put your shoes on.”

  Kevin scowled at the shiny black loafers. “I hate those shoes. I want to wear my sneakers.”

  Exasperated, she leaned down until their faces were level. “Young man, you will put your shoes on, and you will watch your tone of voice. Or you'll find yourself in very hot water.”

  Megan marched out of his room and across the hall to her own. Snatching her brush from the dresser, she began to drag it through her hair. She didn't want to go to the damn dinner party, either. The aspirin she'd downed an hour before hadn't even touched the split­ting headache slicing through her skull. But she had to put on her party face and go down, pretend she wasn't terrified and angry and sick with worry over Baxter Dumont.

  Colleen might be wrong, she thought. After all, it had been nearly a decade. Why would Baxter bother with her and Kevin now?

  Because he wanted to be a United States senator. Megan closed her eyes. She read the paper, didn't she? Baxter had already begun his campaign for the seat. And an illegitimate son, never acknowledged, hardly fit the straight-arrow platform he'd chosen.