Banish Misfortune (3 page)

Chapter Two

Hamilton MacDowell was a big, bluff, hearty bear of a man, with a 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, which towered 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-three 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."

"Touche," 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
boeufen 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 msgor 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 your life-style," 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 celebrate your 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 charming 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 fiance, 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 bedding every female 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.

Chapter Three

Hamilton MacDowell's town house was dark and silent as Springer bounded up the broad front steps, his sneakered feet noiseless on the worn stone. It was after two in the morning—the welcoming committee would be sound asleep. Which was just the way Springer wanted it. The last thing he was in the mood for was the strained effort of his uncomfortable father, never sure whether he should attempt to embrace his son or not.

Sliding a large hand into the pocket of his jeans, he fished around until he came up with the set of keys needed to keep the world at bay in New York City. He never could remember which order they came in, and it took ten minutes of mild cursing to finally accomplish unlocking the fortress. Damn, he was too tired to have to deal with Hamilton's paranoia, he thought, resisting the impulse to slam the door shut behind him. The familiar smell came back to him as he paused in the hallway. The smell of his childhood—polished wood, potpourri, the faint, teasing tang of French cooking redolent of tarragon and thyme. And unexpectedly a sharp knot of grief hit him, leaving him suddenly as alone and vulnerable as a fifteen-year-old boy can be.

He swore then, a short, obscene word spoken out loud that quickly banished the ghosts. He was twenty years away from that time—and yet whenever he stepped back into this house those years fell away for a brief, devastating moment.

Moving on silent feet, he made a swift tour of the first floor, like a blind man familiarizing himself with possible pitfalls. The couch was the same one that had been there for a dozen years, though Hamilton had had it recovered in some nubby white cotton. The Wyeth still hung over the mantel, the Chippendale highboy that he used to hide his toy trucks in still presided with stately elegance in the corner. And there was that damned picture of him that Hamilton doubtless resurrected each time he was due for a visit, grinning as if he hadn't a care in the world. He remembered the day Elyssa had taken that picture—a clear, sunny day on Puget Sound with a stiff, warm breeze that swept away cobwebs and regrets with an impartial hand. He'd give five years of his life to be back there right now, not prowling around his father's living room, dreading the morning.

There was even the heavy silver ashtray that had held his first smoking attempts. It was Mexican, in the shape of a large sombrero, and when he was sixteen he'd stub out half-smoked cigarette after half-smoked cigarette in a ring around the silver hat brim.

Springer shook his head at youthful folly, feeling the remembered need for cigarettes that hit him in moments of stress. The next month would be filled with stress—cigarettes wouldn't help matters.

But a shower and a drink would. The town house was cool but not air-conditioned, and the long summer drive had left him hot and sticky, the shirt clinging to his back. Grabbing his suitcase, he bounded silently up the two flights of stairs to the solitary third-floor studio he had claimed for his own on his last visit. He even had his own private entrance—the once-used servants' stairway down to the kitchen and out the back. If he worked it just right, he wouldn't have to see much of Hamilton at all.

The room was just as he had remembered it—its sprawling proportions taking over all of the third floor, leaving just enough space for a Spartan bathroom. The bed was new—he'd fit in its king-sized proportions better than in the narrow single bed that had been there last time.

"A bribe, Hamilton?" he questioned wryly, his voice a husky drawl in the still, warm air. The windows were left open to the cooler night air, and Springer dumped his suitcase on the bed before heading for the shower. At least the bed would make the next thirty days more comfortable. He'd had to sleep diagonally in the single bed, and even then his feet had hung over the edge—and God knows what would have happened if he'd been fool enough to bring a woman home. They would have had to make do on the floor. Or on Hamilton's couch. There would have been a certain ironic satisfaction to that.

Coming out of the shower, he rubbed his thick black hair with a towel, eyeing the bed longingly. He could almost believe he might sleep, if it weren't for the telltale tension in his wrists, the silent tick-tick of his heartbeat. Pulling on a faded pair of jeans, he padded, barefoot, down the back stairway to the kitchen. He knew where Ham kept his brandy, and very fine brandy it was. It would do the trick

Springer stopped dead still in the doorway of the kitchen, a numbness washing over him, quickly replaced by a sick fury that left him shaking with rage. This time Hamilton hadn't gotten rid of his current protege. His newest was standing at the kitchen stove, heating some milk, the brandy on the counter beside him. In the dim light Springer could see the tall, skinny body of the boy, wrapped in a florid silk kimono that flapped around his shapely bare, shaved legs. The face was thin, delicate beneath the close-cropped blond hair, the expression set and preoccupied.

With a great effort Springer willed himself to relax. He had to admit, his father's taste had improved in the past few years. This skinny, androgynous creature was at least more appealing than Johnson Endicott's raddled excesses. Well, he could be pleasant—he'd had more than twenty years to accept his father's preferences. He still found it easier to accept them in other people, but he wasn't about to cause a scene.

Nevertheless, some devil was prompting him, no doubt due to his nervous exhaustion. "Aren't you a little young for my father?" His husky voice broke the stillness in a studied drawl. "He usually prefers his boyfriends a little long in the tooth."