Kissed by Moonlight (2 page)

Why he failed this second time was beyond comprehension. Perhaps it was because the first failure had killed the dash of recklessness that bold plans need to succeed. Whatever the reason, two years and eleven months after the first crash his second venture failed, leaving him a bitterly disillusioned, defeated man.

All the dirt of the earlier project was raked up by the press. It barely concerned him because this time his health as well as his spirit broke. He knew he could not make another comeback. He was finished. He had nothing to live for, and he gave up living.

The press, true to form right to the end, hinted that in a moment of abject depression he had taken his own life. In her grief, it was one small consolation to Petrina that the coroner's report showed he died of natural causes.

At the funeral there was no lack of spectators; the morbid curiosity seekers were there in abundance. But only two real mourners were present – Petrina and her dear, steadfast friend, the man who had been like another father to her, Professor Richard Palmer.

Afterward, in the quiet pub where she was picking at her food in an attempt to please the professor because she knew how worried he was about her, he said, “I sent a wire to David. I thought he might have made it here in time to pay his last respects.”

She hadn't set eyes on his son for close to three years, not since the eve of her father's first crash when she had impulsively blurted out her love for him. She would have been surprised to see David Palmer paying something to her father in death that he hadn't felt for him in life. He might have respected him when he was doing well, but he had no respect for a failure. And no thought for anyone who just happened to be caught in the backwash of that failure.

The professor, who had a knack for coming out with things to make life easier to understand, had once likened life to a lake. You cast in your lot and make a ripple. It can be a peaceful ripple or a gigantic splash.

Now she said, “My father made a maelstrom in the lake of life and drowned in it, didn't he?”

“Yes,” he said, sighing deeply. “We should remember that we are not the only ones in the lake. The turbulence we make spreads out to affect others. Those closest are the worst affected. It will still after a while, Trina.” He patted her hand and said briskly, “If you've quite finished pushing that food about your plate, I'm going to take you home with me.”

She was glad to be released from the burden of pretense and willingly abandoned her knife and fork for her coat. But once outside the pub, walking with her hand thrust companionably in the crook of his arm, she said, “Thank you, it's kind of you and I appreciate it, but I can't come home with you. I must go back to the flat.”

“You said
must,
not
want,
he observed shrewdly.

“I can't explain it,” she said.

“Some things don't need explaining. You are your father's daughter; you'll never pick the easy fences.”

She felt ashamed. She wasn't being noble or brave in wanting to face up to life by herself, if that was what he thought. Yet there was some truth in his words. She
was
her father's daughter, and as in her father, the instinct to crawl back to her lair and lick her wounds in solitude went deep.

But the solitude she craved was not to be found. To get through the door she had to fight her way past a barrage of the same reporters who had tormented her for days. She didn't know why they thought she was hot news, why they wanted to pick over the dead bones.

She came up out of her thoughts to anchor the quilt more firmly about her body. “It's been a long time, David.”

“Long enough to sink past grievances, wouldn't you say?”

Only he would purposely bring back the memory of their last meeting when she'd thrown herself at him. That sort of cruelty was only what she expected of him, yet it still made her draw her breath in sharply.

“I made a fool of myself. I'm older now, and it won't happen again.”

“Pity. I wouldn't mind it happening now.”

She gritted her teeth. “Look, you've frightened the life out of me by bouncing in like this. Would you mind telling me what you want and then leaving?”

His handsome face wore a pained expression. “I've already explained my unorthodox entrance. I didn't want to run the gauntlet of the press at your expense. It wouldn't do your image any good to have reports of a gentleman caller at this hour of night. Not so soon after ...” His voice trailed off.

“Get on with it,” she said, not wanting to fall into the trap of saying, “Where's the gentleman?” knowing full well that a fitting answer to that would be waiting to trip off his lips. Now she came to think about it she'd always resented his ability to think faster than normal people. That trait, combined with a certain subtlety of wit, had given her many uncomfortable moments in the past.

“I'm offering you the means to escape the harassment of the press.”

“What means? And what's in it for you, David? You never offer anything unless you're assured of a good return.”

His indrawn breath was as audible as the narrowing of his eyelids was noticeable.

“You don't like being reminded of how ruthless you are, do you, David?”

“I prefer the word
astute
.”

“Of course you would.”

Successful in all business undertakings, he seemed to run on a never-ending electric current, but she knew the real power behind him was ambition. She was frightened of ambition. Look what it had done to her father. He, too, had pursued success with grim determination, but it had turned around to snap back at him and had hounded him into his grave.

“Don't you think I'm capable of doing a kindness without having an ulterior motive?”

“It would be most unlikely.”

“Perhaps you're right,” he drawled. “Even supposedly kind people only do good deeds because they think they're securing a place in heaven for themselves.”

“That sounds more like the David I remember.”

“You're not like the Petrina I remember, though. You've changed. The promise was always there, but I didn't realize you'd grow into such a riveting beauty.”

He moved from his sitting position on the edge of the bed and stood up. He towered over her. Her jawline went rigid; she threw her head tautly back to look up at him, as though she dare not let him slip the net of her gaze.

His bright blue eyes were knowing, derisive, and full of rebuke. “All the changes aren't for the better. You've grown cynical and suspicious. I liked the gullible child best.”

His patronizing tone irked her. Her soft brown-violet eyes took on the harsher color of smoke. With assumed arrogance, as though she were acting on someone else's orders, she said, in reckless mimicry of his own derision, “You had your chance with her. You didn't take it.”

“No, I didn't.” His blue eyes were as piercing as a dagger. As she managed the strength not to look away, she thought she saw a flicker of something – regret, nostalgia, longing – shadow his gaze, but it was just as quickly swept away. His face was composed as he said, “You do some things in life that put others out of reach.”

She felt she should remember those words. Somewhere there was a clue that was begging to be recognized.

He added, in a low voice that was like the release of an inner thought, “You don't know how close a thing it was, though.”

For a tantalizing moment she almost believed that her yesterday self, that gauche child, had touched some nerve of awareness in this experienced, wordly man. It was a beautiful, incandescent thought, but even as she held it so briefly it burned her so she had to let it go. The evidence of it remained as two dots of color in her cheeks.

“Will you please stop playing with me,” she cried out in anguish.

With the slip of her control, his was regained, almost as if the one was dependent on the other. It was a pattern that had been set long ago, for their relationship had never been an easy one. If one showed normal kindness or betrayed tenderness, the other met it with scorn and ridicule.

“Playing with you?” he mocked, with enough undercurrents in his tone to keep her cheeks rosy with embarrassment. “What an intriguing picture that conjures up.”

“You must work hard to be this hateful,” she said. “Such a polished performance can only come with hours of practice.” She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. “If you won't get out of here, then I will. I'd rather battle it out with the reporters than stomach you for a moment longer.”

“Poor little Petrina,” he taunted, with laughter in his eyes. “I always did get under your skin. Incidentally, dignity in dishabille is impossible to achieve. Why don't you –” He was obviously looking around for some garment to hand to her that was more fitting than the quilt, and for the first time he took in the disorder of the room. “Good heavens! Are you always this untidy?”

“Of course not. I had a throwing session, a tantrum, an indulgence you would never permit yourself.”

“No, I can't see the profit in it,” he said in mild amusement, as though he knew he was offering her bait that she would find impossible to resist.

“The
profit
!” she scoffed before she realized she had been manipulated to say just that. “I hate you, David Palmer. Hate you ... hate ...”

“Not tears,” he said in disgust on seeing the liquid sparkle in her eyes.

She could have said, “Why not tears? After all, I'm grieving for my father,” but she would not beg for his sympathy. So she bit savagely on her lower lip until the pain blanched it white and she'd recovered from her lapse into self-pity.

“If I were as inhuman as you care to believe, I wouldn't be here at all,” he said gravely.

“Why
are
you here?” Although she spat the words at him, her eyes were curious. After all, he still hadn't told her how he could help her, as he had apparently come to do.

His regard was thoughtful. “Before I answer that, have you made any plans?”

In a threadlike voice that matched her lowered head, she said, “No, I've still to decide what to do.” She was instantly ashamed of that hint of fatigue, of her despairing weariness, and visibly lifted herself up by her chin, which again pointed at him in defiance. “Strange as it may seem to you, I've needed all my resources to get through the last few days.”

His nod of agreement confounded her. It was that, and not the prospect facing her, that put a wobble in her voice. “I shall have to get a job.”

“That does sound drastic,” he observed in cool amusement. “You're not considering selling your life story to the press? Obviously that's why you're being persecuted by that battery of reporters. On the further assumption that each one is battling for exclusive rights, you could earn yourself a tidy sum.”

“Even you wouldn't insult me by thinking that I might be tempted to accept, no matter how much money I was offered,” she said, devouring him in anger with her eyes.

“People do all manner of things when they're in a corner.”

His contrasting cool sent her temper flaring even higher. “And you think I'm in a corner?”

“Aren't you? How do you intend to set about earning your living? What did that expensive school equip you to do?”

In truth, she was forced to reply, “Very little, beyond putting on the social airs and graces. It was my father's choice, not mine. And when he made it he couldn't have foreseen a time when I'd need to earn my own living. I left as soon as I could.”

“To stay at home, I understand. You didn't go out and get a job.”

“Do you think I didn't want to? Somebody had to keep house for my father. I'd have been a lot happier training to do something useful. Perhaps it isn't too late now, as soon as the dust has settled. I don't fancy the notoriety of being pointed out as the daughter of a fallen idol. That's in case you think I'm employing delaying tactics, putting off the evil day.”

“I don't blame you for wanting to lie low until it's all blown over, but I won't stand by and see you climbing on my father's back to do it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

His dark eyebrows went up in mild surprise that she needed it spelled out. “He hasn't the financial strength to give you a piggyback ride.”

She chewed on her lip. “Did you know that your father has offered me a home?”

“I didn't, but I guessed he might have done. He's very fond of you.”

“It's not a one-way thing. I'm fond of him. I'm already too indebted to him, though. I won't sponge off him any longer than necessary, if that's what's bothering you.”

“It doesn't seem to bother
you.
”

The challenge bewildered her, but she answered truthfully, “No, because he knows that if the position was reversed, he could rely on me for help.”

“That's true. But would he let you help him? He's a proud, stubborn man. I wanted to make up his losses three years ago, but he wouldn't hear of it.”

She felt that he'd said more about his father's plight than he had meant to. Her opinion of David, the man, might be unfavorable, but she knew that he loved his father and that no man could have been a more devoted son. He'd fallen into the very human trap of being carried away by his own frustration because he wasn't allowed to help. She didn't want to believe what David seemed to hinting. After all, his brilliant brain and business acumen had rocketed him into an income bracket that must make his father's modest earnings seem like a pittance in comparison. At the same time, she found herself giving David a long, thoughtful look.

“You said your father suffered a financial loss three years ago?” Her eyes traced the dark contours of his face, sliding along the powerful jawline to the uncompromising straightness of his mouth.