Dangerous Ladies (63 page)

“I didn’t recognize her.”

“I’ll look into it.” He didn’t sound worried.

But he wasn’t really the kind of guy who showed his worries. “Why do you suppose she did it?” That bothered Meadow more than anything.

“I don’t know. Why do
you
suppose she did it?”

“Maybe I offended this woman somehow? Or she’s some kind of psychopath who sneaks into hotels and locks people in linen closets?” Even Meadow thought that sounded stupid, but,
Maybe it’s someone after the painting,
seemed an answer fraught with peril.

If only he were less aloof . . . If only she trusted him a little more . . .

“I’ll look into it,” he said again. “Will you forgive me for leaving you here, now?”

“Sure, but . . .”
Are you embarrassed by what happened in the closet? What can I do to make you stay?

“What is it? Are you scared?”

“No. No, I’m not scared.”
Confused, uncertain, worried, yes. Scared, no.
“I need to shower. I’ll see you later?”
Needy, Meadow. And clingy.

“Of course.” One corner of his mouth crooked up in what might pass for amusement. “When Mother’s with me, we dine in manorial splendor.”

“Oh, nooo.” Meadow leaned against the door frame and looked up at him in despair. “Will she interrogate me some more?”

“I believe she’ll call it conversation.” He sounded almost normal now.

Her anxiety eased. She felt a little more like Meadow and less like a woman facing a disaster of mammoth proportions. “You should have heard her in the library after you left. That was
not
conversation.”

Abruptly his half smile disappeared. “She doesn’t understand what got into me, marrying so swiftly and without warning.”

The tension returned, thicker and more oppressive than ever.

She straightened. “But we aren’t really married.”

Stepping close, he crowded her against the wall and leaned close enough that his breath brushed her ear, that his heat seared her flesh. “We married in Majorca. Unless you remember differently?”

She loved him. She ought to be able to tell him the truth. He seemed to want her to tell him the truth. So she would. “I . . . I
should. I . . . It seems wrong, like we’re not married.”
The truth, Meadow. Tell him the truth.

But when he looked so cool, like a quarterback planning a new play, like the big, ruthless developer his reputation claimed, she choked up. Would he throw her out? Maybe she was betraying him by lying, but what other choice did she have? Betray her grandmother? Leave her mother to die?

He flashed her one of those sharklike smiles that expressed no amusement. “Until you say different, we were married in Majorca, and I intend to remind you every chance I get.”

He was bullying her, and any sensible woman would shrink away.

Not Meadow. Her stupid body yearned for his, her blood surging in her veins. She leaned her head away from him, giving him access to her throat, wanting his kisses on her skin. . . .

He stepped away. Briefly, gently, he caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “Try not to get into trouble.”

She watched him leave, his long legs eating up the distance, his hips rolling with that assurance that told a woman he knew how to give her pleasure.

He must have transferred his heat to her, for her cheeks grew warm. Flinging herself into their suite, she locked the door and fell back on the small sofa in the sitting room. She would have never considered Devlin Fitzwilliam someone she could love.

He was a developer, a guy who created hotels that attracted people to the wild places in the world, where they could ruin them with sewage and sunscreen.

Yet at the same time, he saved old buildings, bringing them back to life instead of tearing them down.

And clearly he didn’t comprehend the advantages of viewing life as a positive experience. In college they’d called her a Pollyanna, and he was the exact polar opposite—whatever that was.

Yet when she thought of what they shared, she wanted to share
it some more. Her eyes closed. Her hand crept to the seam of her jeans, and she rubbed herself between her legs, imagining he was here, watching, helping—

The shrill ring of the hotel phone brought her to her feet, wild-eyed and mortified.

All these damned security cameras had made her paranoid. She felt as if she’d been caught in the act.

But by who? Who was calling her here?

Devlin. Who else?

Snatching up the receiver, she put all her longing into her tone. “Hello?”

“Meadow? Is that you?” Judith’s voice, sharp, nasal, anxious.

“Judith!” Immediately Meadow’s mind leaped to the worst. “Is it Mom?”

“No, she’s fine. Just fine.”

“Then what are you doing calling me here?” Meadow lowered her voice as if someone could hear her. And that was impossible—obviously the doors were soundproof. But somehow the security in the hotel felt as if it were turned against her, and she wouldn’t put it past Sam to have planted a microphone in their rooms.

“I had to take a chance. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“How did you get through to me?” Meadow had visions of Judith asking for her at the switchboard, and whoever worked the desk running right to Devlin with the information.

“I called and got a maid. She told me your room number, and after that I could direct-dial.” Judith’s voice lowered, too. “Have you had any luck finding it?”

The painting, she meant. “None.”

“Are you looking hard? All the time?”

“No. I search when I can, but I have to act normal.” Meadow paced toward the window and gazed out on the estate. It was all so peaceful out there, and such turmoil inside.

“Is Fitzwilliam giving you trouble?” Judith sounded fretful.

“Not trouble exactly. He sort of wants me to stay here, and I don’t know why.”

“You know why,” Judith said.

Meadow didn’t like Judith’s tone. “No. Why?”

“He wants to sleep with you.”

Meadow didn’t know what to say.

Her hesitation must have been telling, for Judith asked, “
Have
you slept with him?”

“Judith!” Meadow hoped her horror sounded genuine enough.

“I went on the Web and read about him. I saw the pictures. He gets around.” Judith made it sound like the ultimate sin, and for her perhaps it was. Certainly never in all the years Meadow had known her had she seemed interested in a man. Or a woman, for that matter—art was Judith’s obsession.

“Really?” Nothing could have surprised Meadow more. Going to the desk, she brought up the computer and typed his name into a search engine. “I thought he seemed too calculating to be indiscriminate.”

“Some women worship football players, and he’s handsome.”

His photo popped up right away, a youthful one of him in his football uniform, a later, unposed picture of him in a hard hat. “Not handsome. Not really. But a mesmerizing juxtaposition of gorgeous and rugged.” Meadow wished she could paint him, but that gift had been given to Isabelle and Sharon, and not to her. She touched the cool, smooth screen, outlining his jaw with her fingertips. “I can see why women would chase him, but it’s not just for his looks.”

“What do you mean? What else is there?” Judith asked sharply.

“When he talks to me . . . he concentrates on
me.
” Meadow’s eyes half closed as she remembered. “No one else exists. It’s . . . intoxicating.”

Judith took a ragged breath. “While you’re flirting with this man, the painting goes undiscovered and your poor mother is
dying—
”

Abruptly furious, Meadow came to her feet. “She is
not
dying.
Don’t you dare put that out into the universe. My mother is recovering!”

“You’re right. I know. I know.” At least Judith had the good sense to back right off. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I’m so worried.”

“All right.” With an effort, Meadow controlled her temper. “Just . . . please don’t say that. Don’t even think it. And give Mom my love. Tell her I’ll be home soon.”

“With good news,” Judith said heartily.

“Yes. With good news.”

“Don’t stop looking. Figure out a plan and stick with it. Everything’s depending on you, Meadow! Everything’s depending on
you.
”

Meadow hung up and sat down, limp with the flash flood of rage Judith’s blunder had caused.

Meadow thought that Judith had always wanted to be Sharon’s dearest friend, but because of these kinds of slips, she’d never managed to get close.

Judith said she believed what Sharon believed. She acted happy, said the right stuff, ate the right things. But she would barely discuss her background, and as Sharon told her daughter, “I’m afraid she’s hiding some trying times and struggles to maintain a good public attitude. She needs to believe from the heart, poor thing, and I wish I could help her do that.”

But Judith was right about one thing: Meadow had to figure out her next move. She was here in the hotel, and she was solid—solid because Devlin claimed she was his wife and because—Meadow didn’t think she flattered herself—because he was infatuated with her body. Possibly as infatuated as she was with his body, and that fascinating, intelligent, guileful mind. He saw life as a chess game, black-and-white, and a series of premeditated moves that ended in one of two ways—winning or losing.

But she wasn’t playing a game.

Last night and today had been genuine for both of them.

So how would this end?

The man Judith described as nobody’s fool accepted Meadow’s story of amnesia, then claimed she was his wife.

What piece did that make Meadow on his chessboard?

Black . . . or white?

Pawn . . . or queen?

Winner . . . or loser?

T
hat evening, before they walked into the dining room, Meadow stopped Devlin by digging her fingers into his arm. “Promise you won’t leave me alone with that woman again.”

“Four’s in there. He’ll protect you.” Devlin was in no mood to make promises to Meadow. Not after this afternoon. Not after she had lied about the maid, and lied again about her silly amnesia.

“Four is a very nice man, but he’s no match for your mother.”

“I thought all women worshipped at his feet.” Today Sam had pressed to send Meadow away. Devlin had refused, but if there were very many more incidents like this one, he’d be forced to act.

“I only worship at
your
feet.”

She was so good with the flattery. But in a few weeks he was opening a hotel. He knew from experience that a grand opening took all his concentration. He didn’t have time to get Meadow out of a closet every time she screwed up and locked herself in. He really didn’t have time to step inside and take her clothes off, or chase her through the garden in the moonlight, or fall in love . . .

She tugged him around to face her. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone with her,” she said.

Fall in love? With
Meadow
? That was impossible. She wasn’t at all
the kind of woman he admired. She was a liar, potentially a thief, a wild child without any sense of how to dress or how to keep her distance from the servants. If he got involved with her, really involved with her, he’d find himself rescuing stray dogs and eating tofu.

He didn’t want that. That wouldn’t work for him. He was a bastard, and his wife had to be like Caesar’s—above reproach.

All of that was true. He knew it. So why, at this moment, was he thinking of their night together and how he’d been so enraptured by Meadow’s passion and joy that he’d taken her without a single precaution?

“Devlin!” She tugged him around to face her. “
Promise
me you won’t leave me alone with her.”

Damn.
He hated that, with one simple phrase, she slipped under his guard. “I’ll stick like glue.”

“All right, then.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

She wore a simple, off-the-shoulder shirt in a flattering chocolate brown and a soft, swirling flowered skirt. Her shining copper hair hung loose around her neck, a beaded bracelet one of the maids had worked for her wrapped her wrist, and she wore sandals again—sandals with a heel, but sandals nevertheless.

She was in no way ready to face his mother, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

The shock of Meadow would be good for Grace Fitzwilliam.

He offered Meadow his arm, and together they walked into the grand dining room.

Actually, it had been converted into a conference room for their corporate guests. The long table seated twenty, and Devlin had brought in a smaller round table and placed it in the alcove. Two broad side tables held computer setups, making the room multipurpose, yet elegant.

Grace leaned against the marble-faced fireplace, adjusting the swirling glass bowl created by Natalie Meadow Szarvas.