Hidden Riches (29 page)

“Skimmerhorn.” If she'd been flushed before, she was now painfully pink. “Your—”

“I'll find out for myself.” He scooped her up and, covering her mouth again, stepped inside with her.

Desperately embarrassed, she shoved against his chest. “Skimmerhorn.” After tearing her mouth from his, she sucked in a deep breath. “I think you'd better put me down and say hello to your grandmother.”

“What?”

“Good morning, Jedidiah.” Honoria brushed her fingers over her linen napkin. “Dora and I were just having some coffee. Perhaps you'd like to join us.”

“Grandmother.” To his credit, he said it easily, even if he did set Dora on the floor rather abruptly. “Were you waiting to see me?”

“Not at all, I paid a friendly call.” She glanced over as Dora walked in with an extra cup and saucer. “Dora and I were exchanging views on Monet. It happens he's a favorite with both of us.”

“It's police business now.”

“Then where's your shield, Skimmerhorn?” Dora asked sweetly, and poured him a cup of coffee.

“Shut up, Conroy.”

“His manners are my failing,” Honoria explained. “I hope you'll forgive me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dora told her. “I don't. Jedidiah,” she said, delighted when he bared his teeth at her, “your grandmother and I would like to know what's being done with the Monet.”

It seemed easier to give them something than to fight them both. “We—Brent,” he corrected, “took the whole business to Commissioner Riker this morning. It's being kept under wraps for the time being.”

“So,” Honoria mused. “He went over that detestable Goldman's head. Wise. The man is a horse's ass and has no business being in command.”

“Is that your
professional
opinion, Grandmother?” Jed asked, and earned the mild stare that had caused him to flush in his youth.

“You know, Dora,” Honoria continued, “I made the mistake of never completely approving of Jedidiah's decision to become a police officer, until he resigned. I'm afraid I didn't tell him I was proud of him soon enough.”

“It's always soon enough,” Dora said.

“You have a very fluid sense of compassion.” Well pleased with her morning's work, Honoria rose. “He'll need that. Thank you so much for the coffee. I hope I'll be welcome back.”

“Anytime.” Dora took Honoria's hand and did what Jed had yet to do. She kissed the woman's cheek. “I'll get your coat.”

“I have an appointment shortly.” Honoria tugged on her gloves. “So I don't have time to see your apartment.”

“There's nothing to see,” Jed told her flatly. But he took the coat from Dora and helped his grandmother into it. “I appreciate your help in this.” He bent down and kissed her, despite the discomfort of having Dora looking on. “I'd appreciate it more if you'd forget it now.”

She only smiled. “I'd like you to bring Dora for dinner soon. Call me and we'll arrange it. Thank you again, dear,” she said to Dora. “I'll come back when the shop's open. There was a piece in the window—the bronze huntress.”

“Yes, I know the one.”

“I'm very interested.” With a quick wink at Dora, she sailed out.

“What a terrific lady.”

“What did she want?”

“The basic courtesy of information.” Dora started to lift the tray, then set it down with a rattle when Jed took her shoulder.

“If I'd wanted her to have information,” he began with barely controlled fury, “I'd have given it to her.”

“You opened Ria up when you took the painting to her. I'm sorry, Jed, if you're angry, but when she asked me directly, I answered.”

“Damn it.” Her calm sincerity was the pin that burst the
balloon of his temper. “Do you know the tap dancing we're doing to keep this quiet?”

“I have some idea.” She lifted a brow. “Do you think your granny's going to take out a full-page ad?”

His mouth twitched at the idea of the elegant Honoria being called his granny. “The fewer people who have the details, the better.”

“Including me.” Now she did lift the tray and walked stiffly into the kitchen with it. “That's why I woke up alone in bed this morning, without any explanation from you as to where you were going, what you were doing.”

“Hold it. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” Her voice low and furious, she began to load the coffee things into the sink for rinsing. “Nothing at all. Go kill a bear with your bare hands, why don't you?”

“Conroy.” Caught between amusement and exasperation, he leaned against the doorjamb. “You're ticked because I went out this morning?”

“Why should I be?” She rounded on him with hurt anger in her eyes. “I'm used to waking up in bed alone.”

“Damn.” Baffled, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Look, I got up early. I didn't want to wake you . . . .” He remembered exactly the way she'd looked, curled in the bed, her hair spread on the pillow. Yes, he'd wanted to wake her up, he thought. But it hadn't been to tell her he was going out. “I went to the gym for an hour, caught breakfast with Brent. We had some things to go over.”

“Did I ask you for an explanation?” Her voice was cold, but her temper was not as she shoved by him.

“Yeah.” Cautious, he followed her back into the living room. “You did.”

“Oh, forget it!” Disgusted with herself, she pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

“I really need to satisfy my curiosity. What does a woman wear under baggy football sweats?” He scooped her up again, nuzzled her neck on the way to the bedroom.

“Nothing important. In fact . . .” She laughed as they
tumbled like wrestling children onto the bed. “Nothing at all.”

“There's a hole in the shoulder.”

“I know. I was mortified when your grandmother caught me in it.”

“And a stain.” He ran his finger between her breasts. “Right here.”

“A nice full-bodied burgundy. It splashed on me when I was making lasagna.” She sighed and slid her fingers into his hair. “I've been meaning to cut it up for rags, but—” She gasped, stunned when he ripped the shirt down the center.

“That ought to take care of it.” Before she could decide whether to laugh or swear at him, he took her breast into his mouth and sent a quick and urgent greed swimming in her blood. “I've wanted to rip your clothes off since the first time I saw you.”

“You—” Staggered, and aroused, she gulped in air as his hands stroked possessively down to her waist. “You shut the door in my face the first time you saw me.”

“It seemed a more rational reaction at the time.” He tore the sweatpants with one powerful twist of his hands. “I could have been wrong.”

He leaned back, his hands over hers on the spread. The sun was bright through the open curtain, spilling generously over her face, her skin, her hair. The ruined clothes lay in tatters beneath her. It made him feel, however fancifully, like a warrior about to reap the spoils of war.

Her body, aware, aroused, alluring, quivered as though it were his hands rather than his eyes that skimmed over it. Her breasts were small, firm, milk-white, the nipples temptingly erect.

Lowering his head, he circled each rose-colored peak with his tongue until her breath was short and shallow and her body taut as a bowstring. The pulse at her wrists pounded like gunshots under his fingers.

“I want to watch you.” His voice was thick as he took
a hand from hers to slide between her thighs. From silk to velvet to damp satin.

The orgasm curled inside her like a snake, striking quickly, violently, so that her body reared up in shock when she cried out.

“It never seems to be enough,” he whispered. He was surprised he could breathe. Watching Dora in pleasure was unspeakably erotic, uncannily seductive. She greedily consumed it, and she generously released it. Her capacity for giving and for taking passion was unstintingly honest and impossible to resist.

So he watched as she absorbed the aftershocks of sensation as he pulled off his clothes.

He needed to see her, to see every flicker and flash of emotion on her face. Kneeling, he lifted her hips, slid her slowly toward him, slipped slowly into her.

The sound she made at the mating was feline and throaty. He never took his eyes from her face, even when his vision dimmed and his control shattered.

 

“I owe you a sweatshirt.” In a friendly gesture, Jed tugged his own over her head.

Dora examined it. “This is even rattier than the one you tore up.” And she wouldn't have parted with it for diamonds. “Besides, you owe me sweatpants, too.”

“Mine wouldn't fit you.” He pulled them on, then stood looking at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching down, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “We could start a fire, and spend the rest of the morning in bed watching game shows.”

She tilted her head. “That sounds incredibly tempting, Skimmerhorn. Why do you suppose I have this odd feeling that you're trying to keep me out of the way?”

“Out of whose way?”

“Yours.”

“How can you be out of my way when I'm planning on spending as much time as possible on top of you?”

“You and Brent are working on something and you don't
want me to know what it is.” It was disappointing, and enormously frustrating, that he showed no reaction at all to her accusation. “That's all right.” She shrugged it off and smoothed a hand over the rumpled spread. “I'll find out anyway.”

“How?”

She smiled. “When I'm on top of
you,
I'll vamp it out of you.”

“Vamp?” But he fought back a laugh as he worked a flattened cigarette out of his pack. “You can't expect me to concentrate on Bob Barker or Vanna White after a statement like that.”

“Bob Barker?” She laughed, so thoroughly delighted with him she gave in to the need to leap up and into his arms. “Bob Barker? God, Skimmerhorn, I love you.”

She started to lean back and kiss him senseless when she felt him stiffen. Very slowly, very quietly, her heart sank to her knees.

“Whoops.” She fought for a light tone as she untangled herself from him. “Wasn't supposed to let that one out, was I? Sorry.” Because the hurt was still swelling, she turned away, avoiding his eyes. “Chalk it up to the heat of the moment, or whatever works for you.”

He wasn't sure he could get his tongue around a word, but finally managed her name. “Dora—”

“No, really.” Oh God, oh God, she thought, panicked. She was going to cry if she didn't do something quickly. “It was just a slip of the tongue, nothing to get worried about.”

Forcing a smile, she turned back. It was as bad as she'd feared. His face was set, his eyes absolutely blank.

“Listen, Skimmerhorn, the ‘L' word comes real easy to me. My family boots it around like a football—you know us theatrical types.”

She lifted her hand again, running it through her hair in that restless and lovely feminine gesture he'd grown so fond of.

“So look.” Her voice was bright again, excessively cheerful. “Why don't you start that fire? I'll make us something appropriate to snack on while watching game shows.”

She took a step forward, stopped. He hadn't moved, but had blocked her retreat through simple will.

“You meant it, didn't you?” He said it quietly, and the eyes that had fastened on her face made it impossible for her to hedge.

“Yes, I meant it.” The defense came automatically. He watched as her shoulders straightened, her chin firmed. “They're my feelings, Jed, and I know how to deal with them. I'm not asking you to match them, or even to accept them if that's difficult for you.” The first licks of temper glinted in her eyes. “And since it obviously bothers you so much to hear them, I'll be careful not to mention them again. Ever. All right?”

No, it was far from all right. He couldn't pinpoint the moment when things had changed between them any more than he could pinpoint his own feelings. But he could do something to stabilize what was becoming a dangerous situation.

“Get dressed,” he told her. “I've got something I want to show you.”

T
he weather, at least, was promising. The sun beat hard against the T-Bird's windshield, giving Dora an excuse to slip on tinted glasses. However thin the defense, she felt better shielded.

As Jed drove north on Germantown Avenue under a vividly blue sky, she passed the time watching the pedestrian traffic. The temperature had risen to nearly fifty, allowing people to walk with a more cheerful step. They drove through the center of the city, far from the rivers with their frisky breezes, toward Chestnut Hill.

Not such a long way from South Street mile for mile, just vast distances of ambience and income.

He hadn't spoken since they'd started the drive. She didn't ask where they were going. She was almost sure she knew. His reasons for making the trip would soon become apparent—just as the consequences of her rash
and impulsive declaration of love.

Rather than dwell on what was to come, Dora sat back and tried to enjoy the scenery, the beautifully restored homes and storefronts, the glitter of crystal and gold in the shops, the charm of the cobblestones beneath the T-Bird's monster tires.

Far up the hill the trees were old and stately, the homes trim and elegant. It was a neighborhood of minks and diamonds, of heirlooms and fat portfolios, of country club memberships and well-behaved lapdogs. She wondered fleetingly how it had appeared to a small boy growing up.

Jed pulled up in a narrow driveway beside a lovely old Colonial. The brick had mellowed to a soft dusky rose and the trim was an elegant and unfaded Wedgwood blue. Tall windows glinted and winked in the strong sunlight, tossing back reflections while preventing the curious from seeing the secrets within.

It was a fine house, Dora mused. Beautifully maintained, perfect in its setting and somehow strongly feminine, with its neat lines and dignity. If she had picked it herself, she realized, for herself, it couldn't have been more perfect. The age, the tradition, the setting all clicked quietly into place with her image of the ideal family home.

She imagined it in the summer when the roses planted beneath those tall windows would be sumptuously blooming, carrying bold color and womanly scent. And in the fall when the big, leafy trees would burst into golds and scarlets. The picture was completed with lace at the windows and a dog in the yard.

And because she imagined so well, her heart broke a little. She doubted very much that Jed saw the house as she did.

Saying nothing, she alighted from the car to stand and study. Only a discreet portion of the city noise traveled up here, on the hill. There would be no camera-snapping tourists here searching for monuments, no bold flash of a blade skater careering down the sidewalk, no tempting
scents of pizza and hoagies from a corner deli.

And wasn't that what she wanted? she asked herself. The noise, the smells and the freedom of being in the center of it?

“This is where you grew up?” she asked.

“That's right.” He led the way to the door flanked with lovely beveled glass inserts. When he'd unlocked it, he stepped back and waited for Dora to go in ahead.

The foyer was two stories, tipped with a many-tiered chandelier that would graciously light the way up the grand oak staircase. The floor was tiled with large black-and-white squares of marble. Her soft suede half boots barely made a sound as she crossed it.

There is something richly fascinating about empty houses. There is the thin, echoing air and the sense of vastness. There is the curious wonder of who had lived there, and what they had lived with, and the automatic projection of self into the rooms. There I would put my favorite lamp, and here my little table.

Dora felt that fascination now, but it was tinged with a deeper curiosity for where Jed had fit into the architecture and design.

She couldn't feel him here. Though she knew he stood beside her, it was as though the part of him that mattered most had stepped back at the threshold, and left her to enter alone.

The wallpaper with its tiny tea roses had faintly lighter rectangular sections where paintings had hung. The bare foyer cried out for flowers, she thought. Tall urns with freesia spilling out, bold stalks of lilies lancing up and some pretty, welcoming rug over that cold marble to soften the rigid formality of the entrance.

She ran her hand over the gleaming newel post at the base of the banister—a banister, she thought, fashioned for a child's bottom or a woman's trailing fingers.

“You're planning to sell it.”

He was watching her, carefully, as she wandered from
the foyer into the front parlor. Already, by simply entering, his muscles had tensed. Dora was right, Jed wasn't seeing pretty flowers or welcoming rugs.

“It's on the market. Elaine and I inherited it fifty-fifty, and she wasn't happy with any of the offers we received. I didn't really give a damn one way or the other.” Because they wanted to fist, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So since she had a house of her own, I lived here awhile.” He stayed where he was when Dora walked over to study the scrubbed and empty hearth. “It's mine now, and the realtor's starting over.”

“I see.” There should be family photos framed on the mantel, she thought. Crowds of them jockeying for position, celebrating the births and passage of generations. There should be an old Seth Thomas deep in their center, gently ticking off the time.

Where were the heavy candlesticks with their tapers burned low? she wondered, almost desperately. Where were the deep-cushioned chairs with petit point footstools tilted toward the fire?

A fire would take away the chill, she thought, rubbing her arms absently as she wandered out again and down the hall. It was much colder than it needed to be.

She found a library, stripped of books; another parlor with a view of a cobbled patio that begged for flower boxes; the dining room, vast and empty but for another chandelier, and finally the kitchen, with its charming hearth and brick oven.

Here's where the warmth should center, she thought, with the sun streaming through the window over the sink and bread baking fragrantly. But she found no warmth there, only the cold, echoing silence of a house untenanted and unwanted.

“It's a pretty view from here,” she said for no other reason than to fill the void. There should be a sandbox in the yard, she thought, linking her tensed fingers together. A swing hanging from the thick bough of the big maple.

“We weren't allowed in here.”

“Excuse me?” She turned back from the window, certain she'd misunderstood.

“We weren't allowed in here,” he repeated, and his eyes were on her as if the pecan cupboards and rosy countertops didn't exist. “Only the servants. Their wing was through there.” He gestured but didn't look toward a side door. “Along with the laundry and utility rooms. The kitchen was off limits.”

She wanted to laugh and accuse him of making it up. But she could see quite clearly that he was telling the truth. “What if you had a desperate craving for some cookies?”

“One didn't eat between meals. The cook, after all, was paid to produce them, and we were expected to do them justice—at eight A.M., one P.M. and seven in the evening. I used to come in here at night, just for the principle of it.” Now he did look around, his eyes flat and blank. “I still feel like a trespasser in here.”

“Jed—”

“You should see the rest of it.” He turned and walked out.

Yes, he wanted her to see it, he thought grimly. Every stone, every curve of molding, every inch of paint. And once she had, once he had walked through with her, he hoped never to walk through the door again.

She caught up with him at the base of the stairs, where he was waiting for her. “Jed, this isn't necessary.”

“Let's go upstairs.” He took her arm, ignoring her hesitation.

He remembered how it had smelled here—the air heavy with beeswax and funereal flowers, the expensive clashes of his mother's and sister's perfumes, the sting of cigar smoke from one of his father's Havanas.

He remembered, too, when it hadn't been silent. When there were voices raised forever in anger and accusation, or lowered in disgust. How the servants had kept their eyes downcast, their ears closed and their hands busy.

He remembered being sixteen, and being innocently attracted to one of the new maids. When his mother had come across them harmlessly flirting in the upstairs hall—right here, he thought—she had dismissed the girl on the spot.

“My mother's room.” Jed inclined his head toward a doorway. “My father's was down the hall. As you can see, there were several rooms between.”

She wanted to sigh and tell him she'd had enough, but knew it wasn't enough for him. “Where was yours?”

“There.”

Dora moved down the hall and peeked into the room. It was large and airy, bright with afternoon light. The windows overlooked the rear lawn and the tidy privet hedge that marched along the verge of the property. Dora sat on the narrow window seat and looked out.

She knew there were always ghosts in old houses. A building couldn't stand for two hundred years and not carry some memories of those who had walked in it. These ghosts were Jed's, and he was violently possessive about them. What good would it do, she wondered, to tell him how easy it would be to exorcise them?

It only needed people. Someone to run laughing down the steps or to curl up dreaming by a fire. It only needed children slamming doors and racing in the halls.

“There used to be a chestnut tree out there. I'd go out that way at night, hitch a ride and go down to Market Street to raise hell. One night, one of the servants spotted me and reported it to my father. He had the tree cut down the next day. Then he came up here, locked the door and beat the hell out of me. I was fourteen.” He said it without emotion, took out a cigarette, lighted it. “That's when I started lifting weights.” His eyes flashed through the smoke. “He wasn't going to beat me again. If he tried, I was damn well going to be strong enough to take him. A couple of years later, I did. And that's how I earned boarding school.”

Something sour rose up in her throat. She forced herself
to swallow it. “You expect that to be hard for me to understand,” she said quietly. “Because my father never raised a hand to us. Not even when we deserved it.”

Jed considered the tip of his cigarette before tapping the ash on the floor. “My father had big hands. He didn't use them often, but when he did, it was without control.”

“And your mother?”

“She preferred throwing things, expensive things. She knocked me unconscious once with a Meissen vase, and then took the two thousand in damages out of my college fund.”

Dora nodded, continued to stare out the window while she struggled not to be sick. “Your sister?”

“They vacillated between treating her like a Dresden doll and an inmate. Tea parties one day, locked doors the next.” He shrugged. “They wanted her to be the perfect lady, the virginal debutante who would follow the Skimmerhorn rules and marry well. Whenever she didn't conform, they put her in solitary.”

“Excuse me?”

“Locked her in her room, a couple of days, maybe a week. Then they'd bribe her with shopping sprees or parties until she did what they wanted.” To combat the bitterness in his mouth, he took another drag. “You'd have thought sharing the misery would have made us close, but somehow it never did. We didn't give a damn about each other.”

Slowly, she turned her head, looked at him over her shoulder. “You don't need to apologize to me for your feelings.”

“I'm not apologizing.” He snapped the words out. “I'm explaining them.” And he refused to let her unquestioning compassion soothe him.

“I got the call to go see Elaine—supposedly from one of her staff, but it was one of Speck's men. They wanted me on the scene when it happened. They knew she went out every Wednesday at eleven to have her hair done. I didn't.” His gaze lifted again, latched onto Dora's. “I knew
nothing about her, wanted to know nothing about her. I was minutes away from her house, and royally pissed at being summoned, when the dispatch came through with the bomb threat. You could say Speck had a good sense of timing.”

He paused a moment, walked over to the small hearth and crushed out the cigarette on the stone. “I was first on the scene, just as Speck planned. I could see her in the car when I was running. The roses were blooming,” he said softly, seeing it all perfectly again, not like a film, not like a dream, but stark reality. “She looked toward me. I could see the surprise on her face—and the irritation. Elaine didn't like to have her routine interrupted, and I imagine she was ticked off at the idea of the neighbors seeing me run across the lawn with my weapon out. Then she turned the key, and the car went up. The blast knocked me back into the roses.”

“You tried to save her, Jed.”

“I didn't save her,” he said flatly. “That's for me to live with, and the guilt of it because she meant no more to me than a stranger. Less, because she wasn't a stranger. We lived in this house together for nearly eighteen years, and we shared nothing.”

She turned back then, and sat quietly. Jed felt a quick jolt of surprise at how lovely, how perfect she looked there with the sun pouring liquidly around her, her eyes calm and watchful, her mouth solemn. Odd, he thought, there had never been anything in this house he'd considered beautiful. Until now.

“I understand why you brought me here,” she began. “Why you felt you had to—but you didn't have to. I'm glad you did, but it wasn't necessary.” She sighed then and let her hands rest in her lap. “You wanted me to see a cold, empty house where very little is left but the unhappiness that used to live here. And you wanted me to understand that, like the house, you have nothing to offer.”

He had a need, an almost desperate one, to step forward
and rest his head in her lap. “I don't have anything to offer.”