Dangerous Ladies (47 page)

What spell had she cast on him, that he should be so adroit, so romantic?

“Here? At Waldemar? Has it got walls and a door?” Her blue eyes were bright and mesmerized.

“Walls of stone, and a door with a lock.” He loved to look at her like this, her lips softly open as if he’d just seduced her.

“With winding paths and flowers of every fragrance and color?”

“And at its heart, an expanse of velvety blue grass where you can dance.” He sat solidly on a bench in the middle of his yard, watching the breeze off the Atlantic made the blossoms bobble and the grass ripple . . . and tousled the bright strands of Meadow’s hair.

And she watched him as if he were the embodiment of her every dream.

He had used his voice to enchant her. Now he found himself enchanted as well.

“Well.” She tore her gaze away from his and patted her cheeks. “It’s very warm here.”

She was blushing. Blushing at the thought of making love to him in a garden.

“I thought the temperature was quite . . . comfortable.” And she was quite adorable.

“Yes. I’m not used to the humidity.”

He watched her face as they spoke, weighed which of her words
were lies and which were truths, and wondered which truths he could use to discover everything about her. “It’s not humid . . . where you came from?”

“I guess not.” She didn’t take the bait.

He was almost glad. He was doing what he should, of course. He’d given the house detective the number she’d called this morning and sent him to search Atlanta—the area code placed it in Atlanta—to see if he could find any information on whom she called. But Devlin didn’t want this farce to end so soon. He was enjoying himself as he hadn’t for years.

No. That wasn’t true.

He was enjoying himself as he never had.

“Why did you come here now?” he was asking. He was coaxing. He, ruthless bastard Devlin Fitzwilliam, wanted to end the farce between them and start anew.

And he waited on tenterhooks, watching her eyes widen with uncertainty, inwardly urging her to trust him.

Instead, she bit her lower lip, then cleared her throat. “I’ll get you a copy when we go into town.”

“A copy?” He leaned back, all his cynicism confirmed. “A copy of what?”

“Of
The Secret Garden
.”

He laughed, a brief bark of amusement. “I’m in the last stages of opening a hotel. I don’t have time to read.” Certainly not a sentimental bunch of drivel like
The Secret Garden.

“I’ll read it to you.”

Long afternoons curled up on a hammock in the garden, just the two of them rocking as she read him a girlie story . . . why did that sound appealing?

But it did.

His little liar offered him a world he had previously scorned, and made him want it almost as much as he wanted her.

For the first time he realized she was more than a challenge and a distraction—she was dangerous.

A third voice intruded, a man’s laughing, charming, aristocratic voice. “How touching. The sweet girl’s going to read a children’s book to the big, mean developer.”

With a thump Devlin stepped ankle-deep into a pile of reality. He turned to find a blond, well-dressed, and far too familiar figure standing behind him, glass in hand.
Shit. Not him. Not now
. “Four. I told you to go away and stay away.”

“So you did.” Four swung his leg over the bench and sat next to Meadow.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“O
r I used to.” Taking Meadow’s hand, Four raised it to his lips.

“I’m Bradley Benjamin the fourth. I’m handsome, kind, generous, trustworthy, and irresistible.”

Meadow grinned at his insouciance. “I can see that.”

“In other words, the exact opposite of stodgy old Devlin over there.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She was still half-aroused with the pleasure of Devlin’s description of the Secret Garden. “I think Devlin’s incredibly charming.” Although he didn’t look charming right now. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest. His mouth was grim, his teeth clenched.

“Devlin? Devlin Fitzwilliam?” Four stared at Devlin with bug-eyed disbelief. “Not this Devlin Fitzwilliam, the meanest son of a bitch—begging your pardon, ma’am—ever to walk the streets of Charleston?”

“The very one.”

“You have a smiley-face bandage on your forehead.” Four touched it lightly. “Tell me the truth. You fell and knocked all the sense out of yourself.”

His guess was close enough to the actual events to frighten Meadow into flashing Devlin a questioning glance.

“Where did you hear that story?” Devlin asked.

“I didn’t
hear
anything. But that’s the only explanation I can imagine for her bad judgment.” Four took a biscuit. “Never allow Devlin’s temporary attempts at civilized behavior to fool you. The milk of human kindness has curdled in his veins.”

She studied Four as he slathered the biscuit with butter and jam and ate it in two bites. He seemed sincere enough, but . . . “Devlin seems indestructible.”

Four snorted. “He hides everything. His feelings, his thoughts . . . then, wham! He hits you with a broadside and knocks you catawampus.” He lifted the half-eaten biscuit. “But his cook is far superior to Father’s.”

“Yes.” Devlin didn’t waste time with graciousness.

“And your liquor cabinet is stocked with the best.” Four saluted Devlin with his sweating glass.

“Help yourself.” Like a stubborn case of athlete’s foot, Four irritated Devlin.

Meadow could see why. Devlin appeared rugged, like a mountain man who had gotten lost and stumbled into this soft, warm, humid environment where the birds chirped and the sun trickled through the thick leaves.

Four was very different. He had a look about him, one she’d seen in her grandmother’s black-and-white Fred Astaire movies—whipcord thin, world-weary, well dressed, and wealthy. Very, very wealthy. He wasn’t tall, only about five-nine, but his blue polo shirt stretched across muscular shoulders, and his gray slacks were belted tightly around a trim waist. His hair was expertly cut—and thinning. She’d swear someone armed with an airbrush had sprayed on his tan. He smelled of stale cigarettes and expensive cologne, and he sounded eloquent and nobly Southern. But most important, he oozed charisma from every pore, a kind of jaded, old-world dissipation.

She didn’t imagine he was anything like his father.

He took a drink from the glass he’d placed on the table. It was the
same kind of glass from which she sipped iced tea. The liquid was brown like tea. But a few green leaves floated among the ice cubes, and the sweet odor of bourbon wafted through the air.

It was barely eleven in the morning. “I’m Meadow.”

“Meadow. That’s beautiful, and so appropriate. You’re as fresh as a mountain meadow. But I didn’t catch your last name.” Four’s hazel eyes danced with amusement as he observed Devlin’s impatience.

“I didn’t give it,” she said.

At the same time, Devlin said, “Fitzwilliam.”

“You’re romancing your cousin?” Four guessed. “Isn’t that a little traditionally Southern for you, Devlin?”

“She’s not my cousin,” Devlin said.

She studied her hands in her lap and wished she could stuff her napkin down Devlin’s throat.

Four studied them, then reached the inevitable conclusion. “She’s not your . . .
wife?
” He choked on the liquor. He coughed until tears sprang to his eyes. Until she hit him on the back to clear his air passage. He waved her away and croaked at Devlin, “You’re married? To her? You’re pulling my leg. Since when? Don’t tell me—you married in
Majorca
!”

So he’d heard at least some of the tale Devlin had spun for her. His eavesdropping made her uncomfortable and a little disgruntled. The fantasy was her story, a present from Devlin, and she didn’t like sharing it with anyone. Most certainly she didn’t want Four asking questions about a ceremony that had never occurred.

“Actually, Four, this is such bad timing.” Devlin’s sympathetic tone was at odds with his glee. “My wife and I are on our way into town. So go away.”

“We are?” It was the first Meadow had heard of it.

“We need to pick up your prescription,” Devlin said.

Her head ached, but not much, yet when she started to say so she encountered a warning glance from Devlin.

All right. They were going to town. “We can pick up a copy of
The Secret Garden
while we’re there.”

“Another good reason to go into Amelia Shores,” he said with almost indiscernible exasperation.

“Great!” Four said. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t.” Devlin was firm. “We’re taking the Jeep. There’s no room for you. There’s no backseat.”

“Devlin, that tone will never work! You can’t tantalize with the news of your marriage, then get rid of me! I have a reputation as a gossipmonger to maintain. I drove out here. I’ll drive back into town.” Four laughed lightly and took another drink, more carefully this time. “While we’re there, you can give me all the juicy details of the romance of the century.”

“You don’t take a hint, do you?” Meadow admired the man’s impervious nature.

“My dear, if a person listened to all of Devlin’s rejections he’d think he wasn’t liked. In fact, I’m his best friend.”

Devlin snorted.

“If I’m not, who is?” Four challenged him.

“My wife,” Devlin said.

“That is so romantic,” Four began.

But Meadow wasn’t prepared to make up any stories about meeting on the beach and exchanging a kiss before they exchanged a word, and she certainly couldn’t imagine expanding on the preposterous imagery of lying among the shrubs in a secret garden behind a crumbling house and making love . . . not until she was alone, anyway. “So your family used to own Waldemar.”

“For over a hundred years.” Four’s pride unfurled like a flag. “It’s the foremost estate near Amelia Shores, and Amelia Shores is the last and most important refuge for the hidebound and stinking rich of Charleston. My family—the most hidebound and stinking—held this place for a hundred years, through the Great Depression and every kind of tax. And we had to sell it to the most famous blue-blood bastard—pardon me, ma’am—illegitimate son who ever lived.”

“It wasn’t so much a sale”—Devlin locked gazes with Four—“as a surrender.”

“Wow.” Meadow looked between them, saw Four’s clenched jaw and Devlin’s insolent smile. Their malice acted like acid to corrode her pleasure in the morning.

But she was a fighter. If they were going to piss on each other’s shoes, she was at least going to know why. “You guys get nasty fast. What happened? Did you have a fight in prep school?”

Four turned to her in surprise, then laughed and relaxed. “I’m older than he is, and too smart to pick a fight with little Devlin and his bony fists. He had a reputation for making the other guy bleed, no matter what the odds.”

“Really?” That was the Devlin she saw in his unguarded moments—mean as a junkyard dog, overwhelming as an earthquake.

“But then, the whole Fitzwilliam family has been trying to destroy my family and its pride for two centuries.” Four’s grin turned malicious. “With no success.”

“The problem is not your pride, but the lack of reason for it.” While Four was growing angry, Devlin was growing cold.

Fascinated, she looked between the two of them. “Is this a real live family feud?”

“Rooted in tradition,” Four said.

“For generations,” Devlin added.

“What started it?” she asked.

Both men shrugged and looked away. They knew, but they weren’t talking. Whatever rivalry prompted the sharp exchange was old and acrimonious.

“Slander? Robbery? Murder?” She searched her mind for something that would really upset these guys so much. “Lynching?”

Four took a drink of his bourbon. “Broken betrothal,” he muttered.

Meadow sat there, waiting for the rest of the story. When nothing more was forthcoming, she asked, “That’s it? Your families have been fighting for . . . for—”

“Two hundred and fifty years,” Devlin told her.

“Two hundred and fifty years over a
broken betrothal
?”

The two men nodded.

She burst into laughter. “How
girlie
of you!”

They were not amused.

“In early America, a broken betrothal was a huge point of honor,” Four said stiffly. “When John Benjamin, who was a wealthy planter, did the honor of offering for the hand of Anne Fitzwilliam, who was his housemaid, she accepted, then decided she couldn’t stand to marry him and left him at the altar.”

“Thus showing that the Fitzwilliams have a long history of good sense,” Devlin said.

“She was probably in love with someone else.” Still smiling, Meadow watched the two men snipe over an old romance gone bad. A
really
old romance.