Dangerous Ladies (56 page)

As she walked down the corridor toward her room, Meadow took the map from her pocket, spread it out, and examined it. Every corridor was marked. Every room was clearly shown. This was exactly what she was looking for.

She glanced around her. But how spooky to know that every second someone—Devlin—was observing her. She’d known it before, but seeing those monitors had made the sensation of being watched so vivid that the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She was glad to get into the refuge of the sitting room, glad to be able to spread the map out on the table and with a pen, plot her explorations.

She didn’t understand Devlin. One minute he was holding her on his lap and looking at her as if she were God’s gift to South Carolina;
the next minute he dumped her off, figuratively speaking. Then, as she was looking around, he grabbed her arm, hustled her out of his office, and, before he shut the door on her, he told her to order room service.

And Sam didn’t let her open that door and charge back in, either. He must have been in football, because he blocked her attempts just by standing in front of the doorknob.

She had just wanted to tell Devlin he shouldn’t be embarrassed because he’d been nice to Mia. Meadow wasn’t going to tell anyone and ruin his image as a big, bad, ruthless developer.

She glanced at the phone. She wanted to tell her mother all about him, but Judith had said not to call.

Was Sharon okay?

Picking up the phone, Meadow ordered a room service dinner. When it arrived, it was succulent, glorious, and vegetarian. The hotel’s reputation for fine food would be secure. She ate, she chatted with the room service server who picked up the tray, she took a shower, put on her nightgown, settled down to watch
Training Your Spouse
, a really lousy reality-TV show . . . and all the time she worried about Sharon.

She missed checking in with her mother. Missed hearing Sharon’s assurances. Missed her earthy wisdom. And she worried, worried so much, about Sharon’s health. If she could at least give her mom a hint, not about what she was really doing, but about
him
, Sharon would be interested. Distracted from her illness.

And why not call her?

Meadow stared at the phone.

Why not?

She could tell Sharon some story about how she was sneaking a phone call during the seminar. A simple tale, because Mom had a way of hearing when Meadow lied.

And if Sam was still in the office, he might see that she was making a call, but he couldn’t listen in.

Meadow looked out the window at the rapidly falling spring darkness,
and made the decision she needed to make for her own peace of mind. Quickly she dialed her parents, and as it rang, she gripped the phone as hard as she could.

When she heard that beloved voice on the other end, she relaxed. “Mom. I have to go back to the seminar, so I can’t talk long, but . . . how’s it going with you and Dad?”

Sharon hung up the phone and lay back on the bed. Sweat beaded her upper lip and her forehead, and her face had that pallor that made River want to cry.

But her smile was genuine. “That was Meadow. She’s having a wonderful time.”

“How’s the seminar?”

“She didn’t want to talk about that. She wanted to talk about this guy she met.”

“She met a guy?”

“She said he’s different—grim and driven and intense. But he fascinates her.”

“He doesn’t sound like our kind of guy.”

“He doesn’t have to be. He has to be
her
kind of guy.”

“I guess.” River wasn’t quite as altruistic as Sharon when it came to men dating his little girl, but they’d taught Meadow to trust her instincts, and now he had to trust them, too. He handed Sharon a glass of water and held out a handful of pills. “When is she coming home?”

“She asked if we minded if she stayed for a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?” Dismay mixed with River’s interest. “She really likes him?”

“I’m glad. She’s only twenty-two, and it’s been a rough couple of years for her. This is a break she needs.”

“Yes, but . . .” He watched while Sharon struggled to sit up, and fought the impulse to help her. She hated that; hated being treated like an invalid.

“Don’t you want to spend some time alone with me?” One at a time, Sharon took the pills and, with great effort, swallowed them. Smiling, she stroked his cheek, then slid back on the pillow.

“Yes. Of course I do.” He watched helplessly as she closed her eyes and put her hand on her stomach, a clear sign that nausea, always so close, threatened again. “You told her you were fine.” He didn’t mean to, but the words came out as an accusation.

“I’ll tell her the facts when we know them. When the final results come through. I promise I will. Let’s let her be happy for a few days.”

He surrendered to Sharon. He always did. She had a strong will and a clear sense of wrong and right, but this time . . . he didn’t know if she’d made the correct decision. He wasn’t sure at all.

S
eated in his office, Devlin watched the video screens.

It was close to midnight. The moon was full. And Four staggered up the stairs, drunk as a skunk. He didn’t even drink that much; he just couldn’t hold his liquor.

Was Devlin ever going to get rid of this guy? While Devlin was distracted by Meadow’s injury, Four had taken up residence, and the trouble was, during his daily visits to the sickroom, he’d charmed Meadow. She liked him—far more than she liked Devlin.

To Devlin’s surprise, that irked him.

How the hell did a guy like Four, who couldn’t manage himself, much less a successful company, win over every woman he met? Did Four conceal hidden depths?

No. Devlin had known the guy for twenty-five years. If Four had hidden depths, they were buried too far beneath layers of vanity, cowardice, and alcohol to be accessed.

Now, as Devlin watched, Four reeled from wall to wall. He was lost, of course. The son of a bitch had lived here, on and off, since he was a kid—and he still couldn’t find his damned bedroom. He claimed it was because of the changes Devlin had made; Devlin believed it was because Four was a dissolute idiot. Four was weak,
without morals, and a lousy businessman. So much for Bradley Benjamin’s proud breed.

Devlin wasn’t wrong about Four. He wasn’t wrong about Meadow. He sure as hell wasn’t wrong about himself.

Devlin lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt and, without looking at the small screen, said, “Mr. Benjamin is on level two, corridor T-three. Send somebody to escort him to his bedroom.”

A deep female voice came back. “Yes, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

Startled, he glanced down.

Gabriel had told him he’d hired a woman, but Devlin hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of her. Even now he couldn’t see her well—she stood somewhere outside. He caught a quick impression of middle age and competence, and an Eastern European stockiness. Gabriel had assured him she was experienced, so Devlin clicked off the walkie-talkie. “Sam!”

Sam appeared in the doorway. He looked tired—both of them had been working flat-out since five this morning trying to trace the sudden loss of water pressure to the hotel.

Of course, they both knew who was behind the sabotage, but that didn’t make it easier to fix.

“No luck so far, sir. The manager of the water treatment plant still says he can’t get anyone on the problem until next week.” In frustration, Sam ran his hand through his hair.

“You know where he lives. Send someone over to knock on his door.”

“Right now?” A measured smile grew on Sam’s lips.

“Absolutely, right now. Then go to bed.” With familiar bitterness, Devlin said, “Until we figure out a way to get a monkey wrench locked around Bradley Benjamin’s nuts, there’s going to be more trouble, and we’ll never figure out a solution without sleep.”

Devlin glanced toward the video screens. He rubbed his eyes. He should go to bed, because he was hallucinating. He had to be.

He thought that was Meadow running down the dim corridor outside their bedroom—in her bathrobe.

“What the hell?” He sat forward.

Sam joined him. “It’s good to see that Mrs. Fitzwilliam is feeling so much better,” he said in a neutral tone.

Meadow was flitting along without any care to a stairway or obstruction or a sudden veer, when one more smack on her head might actually give her what she claimed to already have—a memory loss.

At least she wasn’t looking for paintings.

“By the way, the detective e-mailed. He’s following up on all the phone calls from Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s room, but so far he has eliminated only two numbers. Most people aren’t home. One won’t speak to him, and another threatened him with a lawsuit if he called again. Three go right to voice mail every time. He says caller ID is the bane of the detective. If a person doesn’t know the number, they won’t pick up. If they don’t know the person who leaves a voice mail, they won’t return the call. And the kind of questions he asks trip off all kinds of concern.” Then Sam looked at Devlin, just looked at him, and the questions were clear in his eyes.

Sam hadn’t been along on Devlin’s trip to Majorca. He couldn’t say for sure that Meadow wasn’t his wife. But he knew better than anyone how Devlin had reacted when he’d first seen her, and of Devlin’s search for her origins. Sam didn’t believe they were married.

But Devlin’s motivations were none of Sam’s business, any more than Sam’s lack of a personal life was Devlin’s.

Sam had no relatives to plague him, no home that called him, no dog to pee on his rug. The guy showed a flair for business, but apparently had no desire to start his own, and occasionally Devlin wondered if he should keep an eye on Sam, because really—how could a guy so talented not have a single fault?

Yet based on Sam’s impeccable references, Devlin had hired him, and until the day Sam announced he was seeking his fortune elsewhere, Devlin would utilize his skills, pay him really damned well, and trust him—or trust him as much as he trusted anyone.

“Where are the calls going?” Devlin asked.

“Most are local, but several calls went to Atlanta. California. Wisconsin. Texas. Washington. Florida. And New York.”

Devlin never took his gaze off her. “She’s a clever girl.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said without an ounce of inflection.

Devlin took the ornate silver key out of the desk drawer and pocketed it.

Meadow headed toward the back door. She was going outside.

“I’m going for a walk to clear my head.” He set off at a run.

He thought he would catch her before she left the house; instead, he arrived at the back door as it clicked shut behind her. He caught it and stepped out on the porch.

After his trek through the dim corridors, the moonlight almost blinded him. It turned the estate into stark etchings in black and white. The shadows beneath the trees sprinkled the lawn with dark coins, and when he looked up, he could see the full disk of the moon floating through a black sea decorated with stars.

Across the lawn, Meadow was running, her copper hair the single color in a black-and-white world. Only she wasn’t really running. She was . . . skipping like a schoolgirl, her arms in the air as if to embrace the night.

Damn.
The drugs had made her crazy.

But he knew that was bullshit. The drugs had nothing to do with it. She was just . . . crazy.

He spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I are going to be in the walled garden. We’d like our privacy. Tell the other security personnel to stay away.”

“Yes, sir.” It was the woman again, speaking to him from somewhere out in the yard. It didn’t matter where she was—where any of them were—as long as he herded Meadow toward the walled garden. There they would have privacy.

He turned off the walkie-talkie.

Meadow disappeared over the rise toward the beach.