A Self-Made Man (13 page)

Except that there were no swans. There were only these rows of blackened swan necks. All lying charred and dead on this cookie tray.

Angie, the youngest of the three hospital candy stripers who had volunteered to serve at Tilly's house tonight, appeared at the kitchen door. She sniffed the air anxiously.

“Umm…Mrs. Morgan?” She wrinkled her nose. “Mrs. Barnhardt asked me to tell you that sometimes the oven runs a little hot.”

Lacy managed a rueful smile. “Yes,” she said, looking down at the pitiful swan necks. “I just noticed that.”

Angie braided her fingers together, obviously in
misery. “Oh dear. Oh dear, I guess I'd better tell Mrs. Barnhardt. The doctor is with her, but—”

“No.” Lacy shook her head emphatically. “No, don't tell her. I don't want her upset.” She cast another glance at the clock—6:48. “There's still time. If I have enough pastry dough left, I can begin again.”

She tilted the tray, sliding the ruined pastry into a plastic bag. “Here. If you'll just take these to the outside can, please? Maybe we can get the air cleared out in here before the guests arrive.”

Angie accepted the trash bag and scurried away. Lacy turned back to the refrigerator, where the pasty dough was still chilling. Thank goodness Tilly had made the dough up in advance—Lacy wouldn't have dared to pass her own mediocre concoctions off as Tilly's famous specialty.

She tried to focus, but as she filled the pastry bag she noticed that her hands were trembling slightly. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be upstairs, with Tilly. She wanted to hear what the doctor had to report. Instead, she had to stay down in the Barnhardt kitchen, working on these frivolous swans.

Oh, Tilly. Tilly, you stubborn old dragon. Why did you do something so foolish?

Earlier this afternoon the young candy striper had telephoned her in a panic. Tilly was unconscious. Lacy had guessed instantly what had happened. And when Tilly had recovered enough to talk, she herself had confirmed it. Determined to sample her own work as she baked, Tilly had injected herself with an extra dose of insulin.

The sugar and the medicine would safely cancel each other out, she had assumed. But she had assumed wrong. Instead she had collapsed, unconscious, on the kitchen floor.

That had been two hours ago. The doctor had arrived quickly, and Tilly had come around, weak, but conscious and coherent. Still, Lacy couldn't stop worrying. She had wanted to cancel the dinner, but Tilly had insisted that the fund-raising must go on. She had worked herself into quite a state fretting about it, until Lacy had finally agreed to come down and make the pastry swans.

It was so hard to concentrate. She had to try three times to get the nozzle attached to the pastry bag. Finally a replacement batch of swan necks was ready. Lacy lowered the oven temperature fifty degrees and slid the tray inside. Then she turned her attention to the swan's bodies, one hundred of which sat headless on the butcher block island in the center of the kitchen.

Wings. She had to make the wings. But she'd created only a dozen pairs of the little triangles before the knife slipped, its razor-sharp edge slicing easily through the tip of her index finger.

“Ouch!” She dropped the knife and brought her stinging finger up to assess the damage. Not a long cut, but a deep one. A bloom of bright red blood appeared quickly, and she had to whisk her hand away to avoid staining the swans.

She stood at the sink, rinsing her finger while she kept a cautious eye on the stove—7:06 and still ticking away.
God.
Could anything else go wrong?

“Mrs. Morgan?” Angie was back at the kitchen doorway, looking more diffident than ever. “Mrs. Morgan, I'm not sure what to do. A Mr. Kendall is here. He says Mrs. Barnhardt called him and asked him to come. But you had said that no one should be allow to see her—”

“I'm not here to see Mrs. Barnhardt,” a deep voice corrected firmly from just behind Angie's shoulder. “I'm here to see Mrs. Morgan.”

“Oh.” Angie moved out of the way, watching with blatant admiration as Adam entered the kitchen. She gaped in a kind of mindless pleasure as he touched her shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll help Mrs. Morgan now. We'll be fine.”

He was already dressed for the dinner, Lacy saw. But he wasn't letting that stop him. As he moved into the room, he shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair, tugged down his tie, and began to roll up his white shirtsleeves.

He was as expensively dressed as Malcolm had ever been, she noticed. She recognized that fine double-needle tailoring, that soft-as-water linen. And yet the effect was subtly different. Malcolm had seemed to draw substance from his pricey clothes, and had stood in them stiffly, as if insisting that you notice how important he was. With Adam, the man was dominant. The clothes draped his elegant, muscular body with a sublime indifference. You knew he would be just as beautiful in jeans. Or in nothing at all.

She suddenly became aware that she was standing
there just as stupidly blank as Angie had been, with the cool water from the spigot pouring unnoticed over her finger.

No. She had to do better than this. She turned off the water and faced him squarely. “Adam, look, I'm not sure what Tilly—”

With a sudden movement, he reached past her, grabbing her forgotten mitt from the counter and sliding his hand into it smoothly. He opened the oven door quickly and whisked out the tray of swan necks. Just in the nick of time, she realized. They were the perfect golden brown. Another thirty seconds, and she would have had a second tray of blackened pastry.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say. “I had forgotten about them. I cut my finger, you see, and—”

“You sure did. Give me that.” He set the tray onto the island, grabbed a couple of paper towels from the nearby roll and pulled her hand toward him. It was bleeding again, she realized. Her finger was red down to the last knuckle.

She knew how incompetent she looked. As he applied a firm pressure to her finger, she waited for him to make one of his snide comments. Ovens that over-heated and knives that hacked off fingers? This was the woman all Pringle Island society had called “the perfect hostess”?

She didn't know if she could take his sarcasm on top of everything else. “Look, Adam,” she said tensely, “I don't know why Tilly called you, but quite honestly I don't think I'm up to dealing with you right now. As you can see, I'm having some problems. I've
been drafted at the last minute to bake something I'm not familiar with. I'm way behind schedule, and I'm worried to death about Tilly. The last thing I need is someone hanging around looking for something to sneer at.”

He didn't respond right away. He lifted the paper towels, checking her finger. “Did you put hydrogen peroxide on this?”

“Yes,” she said, pulling her hand back. “Adam, did you hear me? I really think it would be best if you left now.”

He crumpled the paper towels and tossed them in the under-counter trash. “I'm here to help,” he said evenly. “That's all. Tilly thought you needed a hand.”

What could she say to that? Even if he didn't sneer, he was going to distract her. But she couldn't admit that just being in the same room with him clouded her thinking.

So what could she say? To buy time, she busied herself looking for a bandage. With her back to him, she tried another tack. “And that was thoughtful of her, really. I do appreciate it, but—” She found a package of bandages, thank goodness. “But it's
baking,
Adam. It's little swan's wings and chantilly cream and confectioner's sugar. It's not exactly your specialty, is it?”

“Because I'm a guy? That's not very enlightened, Lacy.”

“No,” she said. “I know plenty of guys who love to bake. And I know you used to cook when you lived at home with your father. But now you— You're—”

You're more at home at the golf course, or the health spa, or the bedroom. You're more comfortable watching your portfolio expand than watching an egg timer. You're too much man for this moment. You're all gorgeous muscle and sexuality, and I don't want you here.

“You know,” he said, “there were no women at the refinery. No housekeepers, no cooks, no mothers, no girlfriends. We were just a bunch of crazy boys who somehow managed to do everything ourselves. And we got pretty good at it. Actually, I'm a damn fine cook.”

He looked up at the clock. “But more importantly, I'm a pair of hands,” he said matter-of-factly.

Still she hesitated. “You'll miss the dinner,” she said. “You'll miss Jennifer Lansing's famous chilled chicken breasts.”

He chuckled and pulled his tie completely off, tossing it toward his jacket. “Not very much I won't.” His grin was charmingly lopsided, just like the old days. “Come on, Lacy. Let it go. It's 7:33, and we've got a hundred swans to build.”

V
OLUNTEER VALETS WERE
parking cars out at the beach, so even though Lacy arrived very late, she was able to drive right up to the champagne finale of her Seafood Stroll.

As she made her way across the boardwalk that led over the small dunes, she saw that even the weather had cooperated. A cool breeze made the yellow Tiki torches dance. The sky was clear, and a romantic blue moon-glow bathed the secluded elbow of sandy beach where the guests had gathered.

She could hear the band playing. Slow songs, of course. After scallop bisque, stuffed grape leaves, summer squash casserole, lobster salad—and of course cream-puff pastry swans dusted in powdered sugar—everyone was far too well fed to do any vigorous dancing tonight.

Though Lacy had hated to leave Tilly, she was glad she had come. The fund-raiser had been a terrific amount of work. But the work was done. Tilly was asleep with a private nurse standing guard. It was time to sit back and relax.

Lacy stepped quietly onto the beach, planning to blend in without fanfare, but her key volunteers must have been watching for her arrival. They motioned
for the band to hush. Within seconds two dozen of her closest allies, men and women who believed that the neonatal unit was important to Pringle Island, had collected together for a warm outburst of applause.

Embarrassed, Lacy shook her head, hoping to stem the flow.

“Speech! Speech!”

Though she hated such things, she knew she had to manage a few words. These people had worked very hard for her project.

“Hi, everyone,” she said, summoning her brightest smile in spite of her weariness. “I'm pretty sure I'm looking at the best-fed people in New England tonight.” A ripple of agreement ran through the crowd. “And I'm absolutely certain not one of us will dare to step on the scales in the morning.”

They laughed. A few patted their midsections and groaned happily. “But you don't have me to thank for that,” she said. “Thank all these talented cooks, who created such masterpieces. And, of course, thank our generous friends, who contributed so handsomely to the cause.”

The applause went up again, and the chefs involved bowed with laughing pride.

“So have a great time tonight. You've earned it. And if you stay long enough, who knows? You may even dance off a few of those calories.”

She motioned for the band to begin again. The violins moved into a rendition of the Brahms Lullaby—a song they'd chosen in honor of the babies whose lives might one day be saved by the neonatal unit.

The melody was timeless. Almost unbearably poi
gnant. Lacy felt a stinging behind her eyes, but somehow she blinked it away. It was a time for joy, and she would not spoil it with selfish sentimentality.

She moved into the crowd, thanking people individually as she went. The dancing had begun again—under such a moon, it was almost impossible not to want to take someone in your arms. Teddy Kilgore was doing a body meld with Gwen. Silas Jared was pacing off a stately waltz with his daughter-in-law. The two oldest Pringle sisters were dancing with each other. And over there, just skirting the ruffled edge where the water met the shore, Jennifer Lansing was cheek to cheek with Adam.

Lacy turned away. Perhaps a glass of champagne…

“Lacy! You're not already taken? I can't believe my luck! Dance with me!”

Travis Rourke was smiling at her, and he looked so adorable, with his sun-bronzed laugh lines radiating out from his eyes and the moonlight turning his tousled hair almost white. She couldn't say no. She didn't want to say no. After all, she was human. The moonlight affected her the same way it did everyone else.

So she moved into his arms, which were strong and warm and easy. He danced like a dream, full of a graceful vitality. She remembered how she'd seen him doing the twist with Gwen this morning, right in the middle of the street, completely uninhibited, completely sexy. The thought made her smile.

“What?” Travis grinned down at her. “Drat! Did I do something ridiculous already?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. I was just
thinking you're a lovely dancer. I saw you this morning, at the market. With Gwen.”

“Oh, yeah. Wow. She's an amazing lady. A real pistol.” He paused. “Sorry, I guess you already know that. She did mention that you and she— Drat, how should I put this? I guess sometimes you just wish she weren't
quite
such a pistol, right?”

Lacy looked at him. In the bright wash of moonlight she could see his kind, perceptive features clearly, and she wondered if there was any point in pretending things were fine. Gwen, with her shoot-from-the-hip candor, had probably told him everything within ten minutes of meeting him.

“Well,” she admitted, “sometimes I wish the pistol didn't seem to be loaded and pointed right at my head.”

Travis nodded, smiling wryly. “Know what's funny, though? I think she feels the same way about you.”

“About me?” Lacy expressed her incredulity politely but clearly. “I'd be very surprised if that were true.”

Travis shrugged. “I could be wrong, I guess. But I've got six older sisters, so I've seen the female psyche up close and personal all my life. I'm kind of a female-ologist, right?” He laughed without self-consciousness. “In fact, I've got one sister who is a lot like her, I think.”

“Really.” Lacy smiled, imagining the Rourke household. She'd be willing to bet those Rourke girls had doted on their sunny younger brother shamelessly.

“Yep.” He danced into a twirl, apparently just for the fun of it, then settled down again. “Moira. She wasn't ever quite like the others. She didn't want to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an Indian chief. She was always off in her own world, always dying her hair purple or piercing her eyebrow or something. Always assuming the others looked down on her. She was pretty prickly there for a few years. Darn hard to get along with.”

“And now?”

“Now she's got an art gallery, a husband who's something big for Greenpeace, and three little girls who, if there is a God, will someday drive her as crazy as she drove us.”

“And does she still have purple hair?”

Travis chuckled. “Sometimes. She's still Moira, after all. Which is good, because we adore her as she is. She just needed to learn to adore herself, too.”

Lacy didn't answer for a moment, absorbing his message. Maybe he had a point. Gwen's mother had died when she was just a toddler—and growing up with Malcolm couldn't have been great for anyone's self-esteem. And then to get a stepmother barely five years older than herself… Even worse, a stepmother who had no idea how to handle an unhappy adolescent.

“Thanks,” she said. “I understand what you're trying to—”

But just then someone tapped Lacy's arm. She looked over her shoulder. It was Gwen.

“Cutting in!” Gwen looked gorgeous in a bright green sarong, her hair spraying out from a glittery
blue band like a moonlight-white waterfall. But her expression as she stared at Lacy was stony. “Sorry, Lacy. You can't monopolize the greatest looking guys all night just because you're the big boss of this fund-raiser.”

Lacy backed out of Travis's arms, remembering the rebellious Moira, who had somehow learned to love herself….

“You're right,” she said agreeably, giving Gwen a warm smile. “Your turn.” She started to walk away, but at the last minute she reached back and touched Gwen's shoulder. “Hey—I hear you helped Jennifer make the chicken tonight. That was awfully nice. Thanks.”

Gwen screwed up one side of her face, rejecting the compliment as if it smelled a little rotten. “Yeah, well, it was no big deal,” she said. Then she turned to Travis. “Are you going to dance with me or not?”

 

A
DAM HAD FINALLY SHED
Jennifer Lansing—no easy task. The woman had attached herself like Velcro to his arm when he walked in, and she hadn't let go. But eventually he'd been able to dance over toward Howard Whitehead, who had more money than anyone on the island and an interest in local history. As Adam had hoped, Jennifer had been unable to resist the bait, so between songs he had subtly passed her off to the millionaire.

Now, champagne in hand, he had retreated to the boardwalk, where he could hear the wind whispering through the eel grass and watch the white-capped waves rolling in toward shore in sets of three.

He could also see Lacy dancing with Travis, who was obviously knocking himself out trying to amuse her.

As far as Adam could tell, Travis was having only limited success. Lacy was smiling, but it was that too-smooth, perfect-hostess smile. Boy, she had that one down pat, like a computer-chip smile.

But it still was enough to set off a little stick of dynamite in Adam's veins. He finished off his champagne in one long tilt. She was more beautiful than ever, wasn't she? And he still had it bad.

Once, he had believed she would be his wife. Sure, they'd parted in anger. Sure, she hadn't understood why he'd had to leave. But he hadn't taken any of that seriously. She'd wait for him. They belonged together. Every plan he made, every dream he dreamed, had been built around that fact.

The night he had discovered she
hadn't
waited, that she was married to someone else, he'd drunk himself into a fury. And from there he'd kept drinking, until his rage had eventually subsided into stupor of self-pitying grief.

He must have been insufferable. Travis had finally taken the bottle away. “An angel? Man, you're scaring me now,” he'd said. “Next time we have a day off, you're gonna get yourself a date, bro. You're so horny you're starting to hallucinate.”

But he hadn't been hallucinating. She had been like an angel. Blushing, passionate Lacy Mayfair had been able to bring him to his knees with one shy glance from those wide gray-blue eyes. And apparently poised, icy Lacy Morgan could do it, too.

Yeah, he had it bad all right. He had come home to Pringle Island looking for closure—and perhaps a small, satisfying pinch of revenge. He had been so confident, certain that the faithless bitch who had broken his heart had no power over him anymore.

But who was he kidding? No power? Dreams of white lace, golden rings and “forever after” might be dead. But dreams of hot nights, sweet, velvet skin and hard, sweating sex were definitely alive and kicking.

Kicking him right in the gut.

He'd just about decided to cut in on Travis when he heard footsteps behind him on the boardwalk. He turned to see a middle-aged man in a suit coming up slowly toward the beach.

“Hello,” the man said politely. “Maybe you could help me. I'm trying to find Mrs. Malcolm Morgan.”

Adam looked him over. Clean cut, mid-forties. Fairly nice suit, though of course nothing like the designer duds worn by the guests at this snobby little soiree. A decent fellow. Working guy. But something was eating at him right now. The man looked tense, as if he was nursing bad news.

Suddenly Adam had a pretty good idea who he might be. “Is your name Frennick, by any chance?”

The man smiled, clearly surprised. “That's right. Has she told you about me? I'm sorry. I thought she wanted this kept confidential— And I don't think we've met—”

“We haven't. And she hasn't. I heard about you just tonight, from Tilly Barnhardt. She's an old friend of mine. I'm Adam Kendall.”

Frennick shook Adam's hand. “Oh, okay, then. Still, I think I should report to Mrs. Morgan….”

Adam nodded. “She's over there—” He was surprised to see that Lacy was no longer dancing with Travis. Instead, Gwen was hanging all over him. “Well, she was.”

At that moment, Gwen looked up. She squinted toward the boardwalk. With a startling suddenness, her expression turned thunderously black. She said something to Travis, shaking her head emphatically as he started to follow her. Then, lifting the hem of her sarong into one fist for faster movement, she started stalking toward Adam and the newcomer.

“Mr. Frennick!” She climbed the three stairs to the boardwalk. Her eyes were blazing. “You may not remember me, but I definitely remember you. I know what you are, what you do. You're a snoop, that's what you are. My father used you all the time. And now that Stepwitch is using you, too, isn't she? Well, you can just stop following me around, buddy, because—”

“Gwen.” Adam interrupted as soon as he realized that the older man was too stunned to set things straight. “Mr. Frennick isn't following you around. He's here to see Lacy.”

“Well, sure he is!” She didn't take her eyes off the other man, as if she could scowl him into retreat. “He's got to report to her, doesn't he? So did you dig up plenty of dirt, Mr. Frennick? Did you find out about the time I bounced a check at the grocery store?”

Frennick looked miserable. “Miss Morgan,” he began awkwardly. “I can assure you that I—”

But Lacy, ever the alert hostess, had obviously noticed the fuss and had smoothly made her way across the beach, over to her stepdaughter. Her smile was still lovely, but it seemed strained, artificially fixed in place.

“Gwen, keep your voice down,” she said firmly, holding out her hand at the same time to greet the newcomer. “Hello, Mr. Frennick. I apologize for my stepdaughter. Gwen, I can't imagine where you got the idea that Mr. Frennick has anything to do with you.”

“Don't you dare apologize for me!” Gwen was practically in tears. “You're not responsible for what I do. You aren't my father. You aren't even my mother. You have no right at all to have this guy snoop around my life.”

“I'm not doing any such thing,” Mr. Frennick insisted, recovering his poise now that Lacy was here as backup. “I am a licensed private investigator. I did legitimate business work for your father, Miss Morgan. And now I'm doing legitimate work for your stepmother. It has nothing at all to do with you.”