Banish Misfortune (9 page)

Jessica could feel
the wetness of tears on her face, but she didn't dare move. Her cheek was pressed against a warm male chest; the even rhythm of his breathing told her he was asleep.

For a moment she forgot where she was, the memories of her childhood crowding in around her. She had thought those were tucked far away in the past, where they couldn't get to her anymore. The last thing she needed was to have them crop up in her sleep, so that she lay crying in Peter's arms

Except they weren't Peter's arms, were they? She had never slept with Peter. The tears dried on her face us she lay there, motionless, willing her body to stay relaxed in the stranger's arms, so as not to wake him and invite all sorts of uncomfortable questions. And he wasn't a stranger. He was Springer MacDowell, and he already proved himself to be the most dangerous man in her life.

Slowly, carefully, she began to inch away from him, cursing herself for her inexplicable reluctance. He slept heavily, his face buried in the pillow, the silky black hair, which was longer than hers, tousled across his high forehead. She wanted to reach out and smooth that hair back, she wanted to crawl back into the bed and press her body against his. And the very thought horrified her.

He didn't stir as she let herself out the sliding glass door. The sun was rising out across the Atlantic, sending peach-colored tendrils across the dark green water breaking on the sand. She hoped her own door had been left unlocked, that no well-meaning soul had gone to check on her during the night. The caftan hung loosely around her slender frame, her long bare feet made distinct prints in the wet sand, walking from Springer's room to her own. And she hoped no budding Hercule Poirot would be out early to check on her, to tot up the clues and come to an embarrassing conclusion.

She would ignore it, she decided as she reached her door. She would simply pretend it never happened. Without question that was the most effective way to deal with it, with him. Last night was an aberration, never to be repeated. If she simply refused to accept it, it would go away, and things would be the same as they were.

But they wouldn't. She knew that far too well. That blessed anesthesia was gone, and she had the forlorn feeling she would never get it back. Damn his soul to hell.

The door slid back noiselessly, and Jessica stepped into her room. Lying in the middle of her neatly made bed was Peter, his pale blue eyes watching her with something akin to guilt.

Carefully Jessica pushed a hand through her close-cropped hair, then managed a cool, not unwelcoming smile. "Good morning, Peter. Have you been waiting long?"

"Most of the night," he said gently. "Are you all right, Jessica?"

"Of course," she said politely. "I'm sorry about the scene last night
…
"

Peter dismissed it with a wave of one aristocratic hand. "Don't mention it, darling. I'm only sorry that you had to be involved in something so distasteful. I had no idea that Lincoln was quite so taken with you. Not that I don't admire his taste..."

So that's the way he was going to play it, she thought, stalling for time. She moved with her usual grace, seating herself at the dressing table, her back to him, his reflection clear in the mirror. She sent out a tentative feeler. "I only hope I didn't jeopardize the merger."

"Don't worry about it. Lincoln wouldn't want any word of last night's little scene to get out. It doesn't reflect too well on him, you know, trying to seduce his host's girl friend. And the merger's too far along for him to back out without a damned good reason. No, everything should be fine. As long as..." He hesitated.

Jessica frowned at her reflection. Here came the payoff. "As long as what, Peter?"

"As long as you...we...can keep him reasonably hopeful. You know just how to do it, darling. A smile here, a touch there and just the hint of a promise. I've seen you do it time and time again, and strong men weep." He smiled his engaging, affable grin at her.

"It's one of your greatest assets to the company, that charm of yours. I can't tell you how much I admire it."

Her lips were swollen, she noticed absently, and the fair skin beneath her chin was scraped from someone's beard. Her eyes were swollen, too, from crying, and there was a flush to her usually pale cheekbones. She turned and managed a cool smile to her fiance. "I'm glad it's useful," she murmured, with just a hint of dryness. "And I know just how to handle Lincoln. I think you can tell your father that he can rely on me to retrieve the situation."

Peter's relief was painfully evident as he hopped off the bed. "I knew I could count on you. I told Father that, but he wanted to make sure... that is..."

"I understand," she said gently, and indeed, she did.

Peter smiled again, his charming, Ivy League grin, which ill-became a procurer, she thought distantly. He leaned down and kissed her cheek—warmly, approvingly, she noticed. "You're looking very pretty this morning, darling," he murmured. "Different somehow."

"Am I?" she questioned idly, toying with the silver-handled brush in front of her.

"More approachable." Their eyes met, icy blue ones looking up into paler ones, and there was an uncomfortable moment of understanding. Peter was not a stupid man, and he knew very well what he was asking of her.

She stood up then, looking directly into his eyes. They were the same height, a fact that had never bothered Peter, and his smile was warm, approving and only slightly anxious. She shouldn't do it, she told herself. She shouldn't come from one man's bed and go directly to another's. But she had to find out.

Sliding her arms up around his neck, she brought her mouth to his, gently, questioningly, pressing her slight body against his silk-robed one.

He responded instantly, ever the gentleman, she thought vaguely. He deepened the kiss with his usual suave expertise as his hands caught her narrow hips and held her against him. And she stood there beneath the onslaught of his embrace, a deep sorrow filling her. The clouds were gone, as she had feared, totally and completely banished. But with Peter, no desire replaced them. It was just a man's mouth on hers, a man's body pressed to hers, and it meant nothing. It could have been a doctor's touch, the feel of him was so impersonal. And yet she could feel his arousal against her, feel the wanting in his arms. It left her unmoved, and the realization devastated her.

Slowly, carefully, she pulled out of his arms, managing a sad smile. Peter looked at her for a long moment, trying to read her reaction. But she had always been too adept at hiding her feelings, and he was no closer to understanding her.

"Well, get some sleep, darling," he said finally, looking away. "Maybe we'll go sailing later. It looks as if it will be a lovely day." He moved toward the door, pausing there for a moment to look at her. "I love you very much, you know," he said suddenly.

"I know," she said wearily, and she did. She roused herself to give her stock response. "And I love you,

Peter." And as the words left her mouth she watched with no reaction at all as she saw Springer's tall figure in the doorway, directly behind Peter's rumpled figure.

Peter didn't even see him, didn't see that mobile mouth slashed in contempt, the dark eyes ablaze. A moment later Springer was gone, leaving the two of them alone once more.

Ask me,
Jessica begged silently.
Ask me where I was all night, ask me who I was with. If you do love me, Peter, show me.

But Peter merely smiled a foolish smile, blew her a kiss and walked down the hallway, closing the door quietly behind his graceful figure. Leaving Jessica to stare back at her reflection in the mirror, hopelessly, eternally alone.

Chapter Nine

The Slaughterer, vol 81: Pearls of Pain

Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. Much as he hated to admit it, he bungled the last job. There were too many complications—the girl with the big eyes and the long legs. The lone kamikaze terrorist with the hand grenades. And his own sudden needs.

With impartial care he stitched a row of bullets around the crowded Nicaraguan street. He had to remember he was the lone wolf on a quest for justice. There was no room for amazons in his game plan.

"What happened
between you and Jessica?" Elyssa's voice was diffident, hesitant, as she accepted the glass of Dubonnet from her son's strong, tanned hand. She did her best not to interfere in his life—she had learned from long and bitter experience that he had to make his own mistakes, and learn from them without his mother hovering over his shoulder, pointing out where he went wrong. But when her closest friend was involved

"What makes you think anything happened?" Springer countered lazily, collapsing into Hamilton's sofa with the same tangled grace he'd had when he was fifteen. "I haven't seen her since the weekend out at the Kinseys's. That was.. .let's see—" he took a deliberately casual sip of his drink "—two or three weeks ago, wasn't it?"

His mother wasn't fooled. "Two weeks ago. I thought you'd be driving her back to town. Instead, you showed up a day early, looking like a thundercloud, and Jessica's been more and more elusive."

"She had Peter to drive her back," he said repressively. "And I doubt that I had anything to do with Jessica being elusive. It strikes me that that's an art she perfected long ago."

"True enough. But she was never that way with me.

"Well, don't blame me. There was a lot going on that weekend that might have affected her," Springer drawled, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"You mean Rickford Lincoln," Elyssa murmured, not missing Springer's barely restrained curiosity. "I'm worried about that situation."

"What's to worry about? Jessica strikes me as a woman who has her priorities straight. If getting to the top of the corporate ladder means sleeping her way there, I'm sure she's capable of doing just that." He drained his drink in one tense gulp.

"Perhaps," Elyssa said in a noncommittal voice. "She's certainly very adept at leading men on. She's got Lincoln drooling all over her, and those damned Kinsey men are egging her on."

"I wouldn't think she'd need encouraging." Springer was mixing himself another drink, one even darker amber than the previous one. Elyssa noted it with curiosity—he usually stopped at one mild one, especially when they were going out for dinner.

"I don't know. Jessica's a complicated person—not at all what she appears to be. She's not very happy with her life right now. Not that she's ever been a serene person, but things seem to be getting worse for her, and she no longer confides in me. I just wondered if you knew anything about it."

Springer turned from the bar set up on an antique butler's table, and his eyes were dark and cynical. "She may not feel like confiding in my mother."

"What would that have to do with anything? I was her friend long before she met you."

He hesitated for a moment. "Maybe the fact that she went to bed with me that weekend might account for her elusiveness," he said finally. "And don't give me that disapproving look, Mother. We're both consenting adults."

"I thought you had gotten over that sort of behavior," she said mildly enough, her eyes dark with disappointment and a distant pain.

"What sort of behavior?"

"Sleeping with every attractive woman you can get your hands on. Haven't you come to terms with life yet?" The tone was mild, the words deeply cutting.

"All right, I deserve that," he said grimly. "And as a matter of fact, you're right. I hadn't slept with anyone in months when I came here."

"Then why Jessica?" "Maybe I have a masochistic streak."

"Maybe you have a sadistic streak. Jessica doesn't need any more complications in her life, and she doesn't need hit-and-run weekends to destroy the security she's worked so hard to build up. How could you, Springer?" Elyssa's voice was shaking with anger.

"What makes you think I'm responsible?" he countered curiously. "How do you know she didn't seduce me?"

"Don't play games with me, Springer," she snapped. "I know both of you far too well. Jessica's sex life is, as far as I know, nonexistent, despite what everyone believes. I'm very disappointed in you."

"Whose mother are you, anyway?" he murmured. "For pity's sake, it was just a roll in the hay. You don't need to make a federal case out of it. Next thing I know you'll be dragging out a shotgun and telling me to make an honest woman of her."

"I doubt she'd have you," Elyssa said coolly. "I think, if she had her choice, Jessica wouldn't marry anyone. Her opinion of men isn't very high. And when you behave like this I don't think I blame her."

"Let's not fight," he said suddenly, squatting down in front of her and giving her what she cynically recognized as his most endearing smile. "This is our only night without my respected father around, and I want us to enjoy ourselves. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you about Jessica. Should I call and apologize?"

"You can leave her alone," Elyssa said firmly. "And you could also make more of an effort with your father. He loves you very much, Springer, and you keep him at arm's length. Can't you see how much you're hurting him?"

Springer's face had shuttered closed once more.
"I
'm working on it," he said repressively, and she knew it was hopeless. She loved them both so much, but fate had conspired to bring too much pain to their small, tortured family.

She smiled then, her warm, forgiving smile. "All right, let's drop all unpleasant subjects. I thought you were taking me out to dinner?"

"I am. I thought Cassin's would be a good choice. You approve?"

A tiny frown flitted over her forehead, then vanished. "Cassin's would be fine. It's one of my favorites." She finished her Dubonnet with a flourish, smiling up at his loving face. "Let's go.
"

Jessica had always liked
Cassin's, ever since Elyssa had taken her there several months ago. She liked the subdued gray walls, the Palladian windows, the hushed murmur of voices and even, on rare occasions, the food. She had lost another two pounds, none of her clothes fit her, and even Peter was beginning to suggest gently that a woman could be too thin.

But there was nothing she could do about it. Her nonexistent appetite had taken a turn for the worse. In the past two weeks she could barely keep down anything more than dried toast and gingerale. She was hoping that Cassin's delectable French food would be able to tempt her appetite and trick her stomach into accepting nourishment. The merger was coming down to the wire, Lincoln was becoming more and more difficult to put off, and Peter was only an added note of confusion to the whole mess. He had finally formally proposed, suggesting they wait till after the merger for an official announcement. Jessica could recognize Jasper Kinsey's fine hand in that—he wanted to make sure his son would have an out if the deal fell through. She should have a lovely time tonight, she thought cynically, seated between Lincoln and Peter, their hands on either knee. Damn them all, anyway.

She had no intention of sleeping with Rickford Lincoln. She had come to that irrevocable decision when she woke up late the next morning two weeks ago and found that Springer MacDowell had decamped. Not that his abrupt departure had anything to do with it, she told herself righteously. She had merely come to the belated realization that yes, she was worth more than a corporate hustler. She was more than capable of leading one lecherous old man along without getting caught.

Peter, however, was another matter. Without examining her motives, Jessica had done everything she could to avoid sleeping with her finac6. She had never been enthusiastic about the idea, and the night she spent with Springer somehow put the seal on it. She hadn't told him about it, as Peter had made it more than clear that he didn't want to know. And he hadn't pushed her into bed—he'd been, as always, a complete gentleman, willing to accede to her needs and demands. If his high, aristocratic brow wrinkled in confusion more often, Jessica ignored it with an unaccustomed cowardice. He had waited months to sleep with her, he could certainly wait a little while longer.

With the grace that she had taught herself and was now second nature, she weaved her tall, slender body between the tables at Cassin's, following Elberto's military bearing as he led her. She knew she was looking her best. The simple gray silk sheath had been taken in that afternoon to fit her diminishing contours, her wheat-colored hair hugged her beautifully shaped head, the mauve shadows around her fine eyes only made them bluer.

The warm strains of music accompanied her journey, and inwardly Jessica flinched. That was the one drawback with Cassin's: the small, intimate dance floor. She had no doubt that Lincoln loved to dance, and she resigned herself to a period of groping later that evening. She would have to be very careful to be just encouraging enough to keep him on the fine edge of bewitched, without pushing him over into impatience and near-assault. Peter could be counted on to help in that matter—his emotions were clearly tangled every time he chaperoned Lustful Lincoln, as Jessica privately termed him. On the one hand he was quite unaccountably, endearingly jealous of the old man. On the other, he was obviously terrified that something might jeopardize the merger. He hadn't come right out and asked Jessica to bed Lincoln, but she had the melancholy suspicion that the moment might come.

"There you are, darling!" Peter rose with his usual fluid grace, and Lincoln lumbered up beside him. "I was worried about you. I can't imagine why you wouldn't let me pick you up."

"Because I like my independence at times," she replied lightly, giving Lincoln her perfect smile, cool, with just a promise of banked fires. Fires that would fizzle out, she realized with cynical amusement, the moment he breathed that Scotch-laden breath on her. "How are you, Mr. Lincoln?"

"How many times have I asked you to call me Line?" he said plaintively, his eyes gleaming beneath the bushy gray eyebrows. It was a game they played, and she positioned the appropriate simper on her face.

"How are you, Line?" she said. Honestly, at times it was like taking candy from a baby. Men were so damnably transparent, most of them. Maybe that's why the chase had lost its savor. They were all the same, she thought as she slid between the two men while Elberto held her chair. They—

"Hello, Elyssa, Springer," Peter said, his preoccupied expression brightening. "I didn't know you were coming tonight. Why don't you join us?"

Jessica knocked over her water glass. Afterward she would curse herself for being so obvious, but she couldn't help it. The sight of those dark, unreadable eyes staring down at her, that mouth a thin, mocking line, and all her self-assurance shriveled away. Only for a moment, however. Throwing back her shoulders, she gave the two newcomers a dazzling smile, so dazzling that she had the pleasure of seeing Springer momentarily taken aback.

"Yes, how lovely to see you," she murmured in her low, pleasant voice. "You should have told me, Elyssa, and we could have gotten a larger table. I can still talk to Elberto-"

"No need," Elyssa said hurriedly. "Springer and I were looking forward to a dinner
a deux
, and—"

"And the last thing you need is a great meal ruined by business discussions," Peter finished for her, smiling. "I don't blame you at all, just have pity on us poor working stiffs while you enjoy your meal. And save me a dance later, Lyss."

Very few peoople were immune to Peter Kinsey's considerable charm when he chose to exert it, and Elyssa MacDowell wasn't one of their small number. "I will, Peter. Enjoy yourselves."

Springer hadn't said a single word during that light interchange. Jessica could still feel his eyes upon her, but she refused to meet their steady gaze.
Go away,
she said under her breath.
Go away and leave me alone.

"Yes," he said finally, that husky, sexy voice tickling her backbone. "Enjoy yourselves." She watched his tall, straight back follow Elyssa's slender, tiny figure, and there was a curious look of longing in their icy blue depths.

"You don't like each other very much, do you?" Lincoln observed, pressing his wool-covered knee against her silk-clad thigh. "Anyone can see it. Can't say as I blame you—he's an arrogant young man. It does seem a shame, though—his mother is such a charming woman." He licked his thick pink lips.

"Anyone can see it," Peter echoed hollowly, his eyes on her immobile face. "Shall we order?"

Even Cassin's venerable French chef couldn't tempt Jessica's appetite that night. To be sure, the dark eyes watching her from across the room might have had something to do with it, not to mention the expected gropings under the table from at least one pair of hot hands. Peter was curiously subdued, smiling, charming, but making no effort to stroke her leg, take her hand under the table, rub against her hip. Maybe he was afraid he'd run into Line, she thought distantly. For whatever reason, he was leaving her entirely in Lincoln's hot little paws, and Lincoln was enjoying his freedom.

"I hope you both will excuse me," Jessica said after the waiter cleared away her barely touched plate. I'm really tired and think I'll go home now."

"One dance, Jessica," Lincoln demanded, draining his Chivas Regal with unappreciative haste. "You can't leave yet, the night is still young."

Jessica controlled her instinctive wince. "I'm exhausted, Line. Peter can tell you that my schedule recently has been murderous—I really do need my beauty sleep."

"This merger's taking a lot out of you, isn't it?" Line said craftily, and Jessica waited for what was to come, contenting herself with a nod. "What you need, my girl, is a good long vacation, away from work, away from everything. Don't you agree, Kinsey?"

Peter nodded absently, his eyes alert.
He knows as well as I do what's coming,
Jessica realized. "But there's nothing we can do about it until the merger's completed," he said reasonably.

He'd baited the hook, Jessica thought. Now all he had to do is wait for Line to snap it up, and then he can reel him in.

"Well, we haven't too much longer to wait, have we? My lawyers and your lawyers are wading through the papers right now—it shouldn't be more than a couple of weeks. I tell you what—why doesn't Jessica come with me on a cruise around the Mediterranean when this is all over? I have a yacht that gets far too little use just waiting for me, with a full crew. You won't have to do a thing but lie in the sun and relax. What do you say?"

Jessica smiled faintly. "I don't think Peter can get away," she replied, deliberately reminding him that she was ostensibly Peter's date.

Line's face took on an even rosier glow. "Even better," he said gruffly. "You need to be away from everyone. And I'm sure young Kinsey here won't mind if a harmless old man keeps you company."

Jessica controlled an inelegant snort. "I wouldn't call you a harmless old man, Line," she purred, and he preened like a rooster.

"Think you can trust me to take care of your fiancee, Kinsey?" he inquired, leaning past Jessica, his thick hand kneading her thigh. She'd have bruises tomorrow, she thought distantly, and smiled sweetly.

"Oh, I trust you, Line." Peter's expression was bland, charming and suddenly as impregnable as Springer MacDowell's.

"But I still need to go home, Line," she reminded him.

"No problem... I'll run you home," he said expansively, his eyes glistening in anticipation.

She shook her head. "No, thank you, anyway. I only live a few blocks away, and I'd rather walk."