Deep Autumn Heat (38 page)

Fiona felt a stab of pain that her father thought of himself as being alone. He had her, after all. And he had memories of her mother. Wonderful memories of the life they’d shared together. Ashamed, she wondered for the first time if that was really enough to sustain him. Or did he need more? Did he need someone like Winnie?

“What about children? Does Winnie have children?”

“She has a daughter, about your age. She won’t be able to come to the wedding, though. She’s off working in India or Istanbul or … someplace. And then there’s her nephew Nick, of course.”

Nick. As if Fiona could have forgotten.

Wickedly handsome, incredibly sexy Nick.

“Dad, I know you already have your plans made, but don’t you think you should wait, think this thing through, be sure you …? Be sure you’re both ready?” she finished. She couldn’t bring herself to say “love each other.” After all, there hadn’t been enough time for that. “What’s the rush anyway?”

“Rush? Fiona, when you get to be my age, you don’t know how many years you have left. Rush becomes a priority.”

Fiona gave her father a long, considering look. His once-auburn hair had turned a sandy gray, but he had a full head of it. His hazel eyes were bright, his mind sharp. He was sixty-five, hardly ancient; he didn’t have to snatch at life as if he were about to draw his last breath.

He was a nice-looking man with a straight, proud spine and square, wide shoulders and a lady-killer smile. She hadn’t realized it until now, but she could see how he could have any number of women chasing him.

“I hope you’ll be nice tonight, Fiona. This is important to me.”

Fiona rubbed her throbbing temples. “I know, Dad.”

The old Buick swept into a neighborhood of lush green lawns, an oasis in the middle of the desert, kept verdant by spouting water sprinklers.

Winnie’s house was sprawling and white and coolly inviting, yet Fiona dreaded entering it. She was just thinking she’d sooner walk barefoot across the desert than go through with this evening, when a woman swooped down on them in a purple cloud of swirling skirts. A dozen silver Indian bracelets clanked on her right arm.

“So this is your daughter,” Winnie said. “She’s lovely, Walter. It’s nice to meet you, Fiona. How was your flight out?”

She chatted with Fiona on their way to the front door, barely giving her time to answer one question before launching into another. Fiona had to smile at this small tornado of a woman who’d obviously swept her father off his feet. He probably never knew what hit him.

“Why didn’t you tell me how enchanting your daughter is, Walter?” Winnie scolded, then reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Her father blushed a bright shade. He
wasn’t a man who was big on outward displays of affection, but “Winnie apparently was. Fiona knew it was a fact that opposites attract, but how did they fare over the long haul?

Winnie didn’t allow her time to ponder this further, but led her guests across the large entry hall, her azalea-pink, high-heeled sandals tapping a staccato beat on the cool terrazzo tiles.

The home was as flamboyant as its owner. Brilliant bursts of color filled every room, not the muted desert hues Fiona would have expected, but exotic blues and sunny yellows and vivid purples that somehow all went together.

“We’re having dinner beside the pool tonight,” Winnie said, leading the way. “I hope you like rutabaga-and-lamb kabobs, Fiona. I fixed them especially for your father because he just loves them.”

Fiona’s eyes widened in surprise. Her father never ate lamb and he would have looked askance at a rutabaga if her mother had ever set one in front of him.

“That’s Dad’s favorite, all right,” she said, sending a questioning glance in his direction.

“Be nice, Fiona,” her father reminded in a whisper close to her ear. When she flared an eyebrow impudently, he added a stern frown to his admonition.

“Nicholas is here already,” Winnie went on. “It’s so lovely to have our two families
together. I only wish Camille could be here with us, but she’s away, working in the wilds of India.”

Fiona wouldn’t mind being in the wilds of India herself at the moment. She followed Winnie toward the pool area, where she glimpsed Nick tending the lamb kabobs on the grill. He had a tall drink in one hand, a long fork in the other, and he looked as decadently handsome as he had earlier that day.

“You already know Nicholas, I believe,” Winnie said with a wave at her provocative nephew.

“We’ve met, Auntie,” Nick said. He put down the fork and came toward Fiona, that slow, lazy smile of his teasing at his lips. His tan appeared even darker under the twinkling patio lights. He’d changed into a black polo shirt and cream-colored slacks that hugged his well-muscled thighs and did strange things to Fiona’s equilibrium. She tried to tell herself it was just the desert heat. In a few days she’d adjust.

Nick politely exchanged greetings with Fiona’s father, then glanced back at her, his gaze taking full measure. She felt its thoroughness all the way to her toes.

“Nicholas, why don’t you fix Fiona a drink?” Winnie suggested. “And, Walter, you can help me set out the plates and silverware on the table.”

She led him away, leaving Fiona alone with Nick.

“What can I get for you?” he asked with a wave of his hand toward a small bar set up at one end of the pool.

“Scotch,” she said, never having tasted the stuff before, but sensing that tonight she would need it.

“Scotch it is,” he said, but not before raising one dark eyebrow at her choice of liquor. He turned and started for the bar.

The man was good-looking, she couldn’t deny that. And all male, right down to his sexy silk—

He turned around with her drink in his hand and caught where her gaze lingered. That slow smile of his slid onto his lips. He walked over to her and leaned close, his voice a low whisper next to her ear.

“They’re tiger stripes,” he drawled.

Read on for an excerpt from Rebecca Kelley’s

The Wedding Chase

A performance introducing the principal theme

“B
Y
S
ATAN’S POINTED TAIL
, what’s all the ruckus?” Wolfgang Hardwicke, earl of Northcliffe, slammed a fistful of cards on the table. “Can’t even concentrate on my game. ’Cuse me, gents. I’ll only be out a hand or two.” Standing suddenly, he upset the rickety chair and strode from the dimly lit main salon toward the offending noise. He threw open the door of the private gaming room, almost knocking the flimsy thing off its hinges.

Inside, he noted a tall, disheveled young man swaying near a scowling, well-muscled giant. Two tough-looking men hovered near a table across the dingy room, one small and wiry, the other short and squat. Instinctively, Wolfgang felt for the dagger tucked in his waistcoat pocket.

“Bloody cheat!” The young man slurred, his balance off kilter as he lunged for the much larger man.

Wolfgang intercepted the young man neatly, swinging him into the nearest empty chair—which promptly crumbled, tumbling both of them to the floor.

“Lemme at him.” The young man, at least ten years shy
of Wolfgang’s thirty-two years, struggled to rise, impeded by Wolfgang’s heavier form firmly ensconced on his chest.

“You’re foxed.” Wolfgang stood, pushing long black hair, freed of its usual queue, from his eyes. Turning from the young man, he glanced around at the coarse men lining the dirty, smoke-filled room. “What happened here?”

“Fleeced me.” The young man still tried unsuccessfully to stand. Wolfgang extended a hand, yanking him to his feet.

“Won fair ’n’ square, guv.” The giant, big enough to tower over Wolfgang’s own considerable height, folded his beefy arms defiantly over his chest. “Fleetwood ’ere is so drunk ’e wouldn’t know ’is own pa, let alone an ace from a king.”

“And cheating?” Wolfgang’s blandly spoken inquiry met stares from three sets of sullen eyes.

“A gent don’t accuse a gent of cheatin’.” But the fellow with the beefy arms was obviously no gentleman, and the odds being what they were, Wolfgang felt it unwise to question his claim.

Young Fleetwood was not so wise. “You’re no gennleman, you’re a cheat.”

The big man took a step forward, clenching hamlike fists at his sides. Wolfgang took a diplomatic step backward. Fleetwood, however, straightened his tall, slender form, and took a wobbly step forward. Wolfgang felt the tension in the squalid room swell, tightening around him like the skin around a sprained ankle. If he had any sense, he’d turn and walk away, leaving the youthful fool to deal with his own stupidity. But he paused too long, and the time for sensible inaction passed. Fleetwood somehow connected his fist to the fleshy cheek of the huge brute with a sickening thud, and the fight was on.

One of the smaller ruffians, wiry and surprisingly strong, launched himself at Wolfgang, who took one punch to the stomach before collecting himself and landing bone-crunching
hits to his assailant’s face and neck. When the third man, the squat one, circled around him, Wolfgang knew this was not the right moment for a fair fight. He disposed of the wiry man before him with a hard, sure kick to that most sensitive spot between the legs.

Reaching under his jacket, Wolfgang withdrew his dagger. A swift twist of his torso and a snaking of his wrist, and the squat man stumbled back, howling and clutching an open gash on his cheek. Lunging forward, growling low in his throat, Wolfgang sent the man careening into the hallway.

One down. One out.

Wiping sweat from his forehead, Wolfgang spun back to the one-sided battle being waged on the other side of the shabby gaming room. The beefy man gripped Fleetwood by the throat. Still wielding the dagger, Wolfgang sliced through shirt and skin. With a savage shout the giant loosed Fleetwood and turned on Wolfgang. Wolfgang slashed at the broad chest, leaving behind more torn clothing streaked bright red. The giant lurched back, raising both hands. Wolfgang grabbed Fleetwood’s arm and edged toward the door.

Fleetwood stumbled, striking a glancing blow to Wolfgang’s shoulder. “You’ll not cheat me and walk away.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Wolfgang gripped him tighter. The young fool didn’t know a friend from an enemy.

The beefy man, heedless of his wounds, came toward them again. Wolfgang released Fleetwood’s arm. Switching his dagger rapidly to his left hand, he met Fleetwood’s jaw firmly with his right, then caught the now limp form under the arms.

“Sorry. You’ll thank me later.” Wolfgang dragged Fleetwood swiftly into the hallway. “Don’t try to follow,” he barked, kicking the shaky door shut behind them.

“Maven! Where is that demon from hell?” He yanked Fleetwood down the narrow hall into a small, sparse office
and dropped him into a chair, shouting to a skinny youth peering through the doorway. “Get Maven now!”

The grubby boy dashed off in search of the gaming hell proprietor. Maven, tall and hawkish, appeared in moments, looking down his nose at the unconscious Fleetwood. “Young fellow’s cut from the same cloth as his father. He’ll meet a bad end. But it won’t be here. Don’t bring him back, Captain.” Maven smiled thinly. “Oh, excuse me, Lord Northcliffe.”

“I didn’t bring him here.” Wolfgang ignored Maven’s slur of the unexpected title he’d assumed a scant year ago. Actually he preferred Captain himself. “I haven’t a damn clue why I came to his rescue.” He paced the tiny room. “I should have left the chuckleheaded pup to fend for himself.”

“You carved up a few of my best regulars.” Maven’s mouth cracked in a very dry, condescending imitation of a smile.

“Best? You’re due for an upgrade in customers.” Wolfgang sighed, long and loud. “Give me his direction. Settle with my card partners and order my coach, then help me carry him out.”

Despite the cool, bumpy ride back into the more fashionable residential districts of London, Fleetwood still lay unconscious when they reached a modest town house on Brook Street. The first rays of dawn streaked across the gray sky, providing enough light for Wolfgang to see the young man’s face. He was scarcely more than a boy and as green as the rawest recruits he’d seen fight for glory against Boney, only to die on a mud-soaked Spanish battlefield.

Pulling Fleetwood out of the coach, he swung him over his shoulder, grimacing at the strong odor of whiskey on the man’s breath. Before he’d reached the bottom stair of the house, the front door inched open and a round face illuminated by candlelight peered down at him.

“The young master’s home,” Wolfgang called out,
climbing the steps to the entryway. “Where should I deposit him?”

The servant pulled the door open and, glancing nervously up and down the street, gestured them inside. As Wolfgang moved to lower his charge to a chair in the hall, the man cleared his throat. “Could you please carry him upstairs?”

“Do I look like a footman?”

“Forgive me, sir.” The man’s round face took on a distinctly reddish cast. “Could you please carry him into the salon?”

“Do you have a footman?” Wolfgang shifted his weight, Fleetwood still dangling over his shoulder.

The pudgy retainer shook his head, eyes aimed at the floor.

“Lead on, I’ll take him to his room, although I’m sure if I refused it wouldn’t be the first time he bunked on a sofa or the floor.” Steadying his grip on the drunken cub’s knees, Wolfgang followed the servant up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs Fleetwood suddenly jerked. Struggling to maintain his balance, Wolfgang lurched into the wall, slamming his shoulder and Fleetwood’s backside into a portrait.

“Bloody spawn of the devil.” Wolfgang regained his footing, as his little guide waved the candelabra before him. The door across from him swung wide, and a figure in white with a cascade of dark hair stepped into the hall.

“Robin?” her husky voice questioned.

“Master Robin’s a little under the weather, coming home with a friend,” the servant told her, then clasped Wolfgang’s arm with a surprisingly firm grip, directing him toward the nearest doorway.