Sleeping Beauty (16 page)

Catching the exchange, Olivia's mouth tightened. She'd suggested that Anne bring Neill to dinner because she'd wanted a chance to assess him. She'd had a pretty good idea of what he would be before she'd met him, and she hadn't seen anything to make her revise her opinion. A man with no conmiitments, no responsibilities. He probably didn't own anything more than what he could carry on his motorcycle. A writer, for heaven's sake. What was this fatal attraction her children had for creative types? There was no denying the fact that he was very attractive. She could see why Anne would be attracted to him, but no good could come of the relationship. She didn't want to see her daughter hurt when he left, as he surely would. Perhaps it would be possible to open Anne's eyes a bit.

"So, Mr. Devlin, Anne tells me you're a writer."

"That's right." She was smiling, and Neill found himself remembering a nature film he'd seen on cable. It had been on crocodiles, and he seemed to recall that they had a similar look right before they grabbed an unsuspecting antelope and dragged it under.

"That must be an interesting profession."

"It has its moments," he admitted.

"Like Lisa's little hats, it must be difficult to earn a decent wage."

Neill thought of his last advance, which could have bought this house and its contents two or three times over, and gave his hostess a friendly smile. "It's not easy, but I've been pretty lucky. I don't go hungry more than three, maybe four weeks out of the year," he said cheerfully. "And I can always move back in with my parents if things get really ugly.''

Olivia's mouth tightened with disapproval, her pale blue eyes freezing over. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but it seems odd that a man of your age should be less than self-supporting."

Briefly, Neill considered the possibility of telling her that he thought it was damned ballsy of her to criticize his supposed lifestyle, but he couldn't resist the wicked little voice that prompted him to play the scene out.

"My older brother thinks the same thing," he said, widening his eyes a little at this seeming coincidence.

"He's more settled then?"

"Like he was cast in concrete. Wife, couple of kids, a mortgage. Like having anvils tied around his neck." He shuddered, throwing his sister-in-law, niece and nephew to the wolves without a second's hesitation. He felt Anne twitch but kept his attention on the woman at the end of the table. She was looking at him as if she'd just discovered a slug in her salad

"Not everyone considers a family a burden, Mr. Devlin."

"I guess not." His slightly puzzled tone carried the suggestion that there was no accounting for taste.

"Your brother sounds like a responsible adult,"she added, apparently in an attempt to bring him to a sense of his own unworthiness.

"That's Tony, all right!" Neill shook his head regretfully. "He's responsible, but he doesn't have much time for fun. You know, throwing back a few brewskis with the guys and watching football on Sunday, cruising for chicks on Friday night."

Across the table. Jack seemed to choke on his wine. Ignoring him, Neill continued in the same cheerful tone.

"Tony's always after me to get a real job. But the way I look at it, you're only young once, and you might as well play while you can. I figure another four, five years and I'll start thinking about settling down, get myself a cheap little apartment somewhere, maybe find myself a wife with a nice steady job. Not that I'd expect her to support me," he said earnestly. "But, like you said, it's tough for a writer to earn a living, and we'll need a dependable income, especially when the kids start coming."

Ignoring his hostess's outraged expression, he forked up the last bite of peach cobbler.

For the space of several heartbeats, no one said a word. Glancing across the table, Neill caught a gleam of something that might have been amusement in Jack's eyes and barely suppressed laughter in Lisa's. Beside him, Anne seemed to be hardly breathing, and he felt a twinge of regret that he'd let his temper get the better of him. But Olivia Moore's silk-gloved tyranny flicked him on the raw.

It didn't bother him for himself. The older woman's opinion of him and his profession meant less than nothing. As near as he could tell, her husband had managed to divorce himself from his wife's petty tyranny, if not from the woman herself, and, if tonight was anything to go by, her son drowned her out with whiskey. Lisa seemed more amused than offended by the delicately sharpened barbs that came her way. But Anne was neither amused nor drunk, nor did she share her father's ability to absent herself from what was going on around her.

She hadn't said anything, but he could feel the tension in her and was irritated with himself for letting her mother's acid-dipped tongue prod him into playing her game. Any satisfaction he might have gained from the older woman's horrified expression was hardly worth the distress it so clearly caused Anne.

Seeking something to break the sudden silence before it could become uncomfortable, Neill's eyes fell on the cluster of pictures that sat on the buffet. The largest of the group was of a very pretty blonde who looked to be in her late teens. There was a picture of the same girl in the living room. The one in the living room was a formal portrait, showing just her head and shoulders, and he'd thought it was a picture of Anne's mother in her youth. But this was a candid photo, with the girl in jeans and a tank top, laughing into the camera, and, while the resemblance between her and Olivia was marked, it was obvious that they were not one and the same.

"Who is that?" he asked, nodding to the picture.

Anne's eyes followed his, and she felt her heart stop for a moment when she realized who he was asking about. Though her sister's portrait was always there, no one ever mentioned her. Her mother might allude to her, usually when speaking of how much she'd lost, but no one ever said her name or openly acknowledged that she'd ever existed. The pattern had been set in the first terrible months after Brooke's death and had simply never been broken.

But Neill couldn't know that, and he'd asked who the girl in the photo was. Anne couldn't bring herself to look at her mother—couldn't, in fact, look away from the laughing girl in the photo. The silence had already stretched too long. She couldn't just sit there like a lump, as if Neill hadn't spoken.

"That's Brooke," her father said calmly, speaking for the first time since the meal had begun. Anne was nearly as shocked by the fact that he'd responded to something that hadn't been addressed directly to him as she had been by Neill's unexpected question. He was looking at Neill, a small, sad smile curving his mouth. "Our older daughter. She...died some years ago, just a short time after that picture was taken, in fact."

"I'm sorry," Neill said sincerely and wondered what was behind the sudden, painful tension his question had evoked.

"I should probably apologize for baiting your mother," Neill said, sliding his hand down Anne's arm until he could link his fingers with hers. "I let my temper get the better of me."

It had been twilight when they walked up the long drive between Anne's cottage and the main house. Now it was full dark, with only the lamps that lined the driveway to light their way. The day's heat lingered to warm the night air, and crickets scratched out a ragged concerto somewhere in the darkness.

"My mother can be...difficult," Anne said, choosing her words carefully to tread the fine line between honesty and loyalty. "She's just...protective of me, I guess. Worried that I'll..."

"Fall in with bad company?" he finished so dryly that she laughed a little.

"I guess." She didn't want to talk about her mother, not when it felt so pleasant to be alone with him like this. The darkness fell like a cloak around them, blocking out the real world, leaving only the two of them to listen to the cricket song and breathe the rose-scented air.

"What happened to your sister?" Neill asked, and Anne felt the peaceful illusion tremble, as if reality were a hammeer, tapping to get inside.

"She died," she said, after a long moment. "That's all."

Neill hesitated and then decided not to push, though instinct told him there was a great deal more to be said. There was something there— something about Brooke or about her death, so that, years later, even the mention of her could fill a room with tension.

But, for now, he was more interested in the fact that he was alone with a pretty girl who fit in his arms as if made to be there.