The Legacy (5 page)

Staring at the sharp angles of his profile, she realized he had a point. But something inside her insisted that she did know him. She wasn’t sure she trusted him, but she trusted herself, and being with him felt absolutely right. Nearing the edge of the bluff, she turned so that she faced the sea and the wind.

At any rate, her feelings for him weren’t serious. Not yet. The pull might be strong, but they hadn’t even kissed. No real damage had been done, she told herself, conveniently forgetting how she’d felt last night.

Inhaling the tang of the salt air, she gazed at the sight before her, a sight almost as familiar to her as her own image in a mirror, one that soothed and calmed. The gray water glistened in the early afternoon sun. A lone fishing boat was silhouetted against the blue sky as it cruised past the island. Seagulls called and circled overhead.

“Who owns the island?” Nico suddenly asked.

“I do. It’s part of SwanSea. There’s a cottage on it.”

“Does anyone live there?”

She shook her head. “When I was little. Mother and I used to sail over and have picnics. I need to check on the place soon. ”

“Exactly how long has it been since anyone from your family has been out there?”

“Years, probably. Ben Stephenson has been the caretaker here for as long as I can remember. He goes over once in a while, although there’s nothing left of any value in the way of furnishings or paintings.” She thought for a moment. “But the island is wonderful. I’ve visited islands all over the world, and I like that one best.”

“Why?”

She considered the island with slightly narrowed eyes. “I think all its rocks and pines give it character and a sort of hardy, tough beauty. White sandy beaches and tropical flowers are nice, but—”

“You want more than a pretty postcard picture?” “Definitely.” She gazed up at him. “And what do you want?”

You, naked, beneath me in my bed.
The unexpected thought hit him like a blow that was all the more brutal because he hadn’t had a chance to prepare a defense.

“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

“What would you like to see next?”

The answer was the same, he thought achingly.

He had all the normal sexual needs and desires of a healthy male. In the past, he’d always taken care of his body's requirements in a prudent, discreet, and uncomplicated manner with women who understood that affairs were nothing more than a game. But the needs and wants Caitlin made him feel were abnormal in their power, scope, and demand. With her, a recklessness threatened to take over, and that wasn’t good. He wanted her, but he couldn’t have her, and the whole situation made him mad as hell. “It doesn't matter. Whatever you like. ”

“Then let’s walk over to the tennis courts. I want to check on the progress of the work over there. ”

“Fine.”

She glanced curiously at him, wondering why he suddenly sounded so abrupt. Finding no clue, she followed an impulse and took his hand.

He looked down at the hand she had placed in his. It was probably the most unthreatening gesture that had been made to him in his recent memory, and he found himself wishing he hadn’t convinced her to let him stay.

“You know, Caitlin, some people think that Jack the Ripper was a member of the British royal family.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard," she said, startled by his off-the-wall comment.

“The point is, you based your decision to let me stay here on the fact that I'm Elena DiFrenza’s great-grandson. ”

“That was part of the reason, ” she said slowly.

“You realize, don’t you, that I could be her great-grandson and still be an ax murderer in my spare time.”

“In your spare time?” Amused, she asked, “Are you?"

“No.” “Then why bring it up?”

Sighing, he scrubbed his free hand over his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Her amusement faded as she realized he’d been serious. “Why would you say something like that, Nico? Tell me. I really want to know.”

“Maybe, I was trying to warn you. I’m not an ax murderer, but, Caitlin, I’m a lot of other things that aren’t so nice.”

“Okay, then. You want to tell me about those other things?”

“No.” He pulled his hand from hers. “And as a matter of fact, I think I’ll go up to my room and rest for a while.”

“I thought you said you weren’t tired.”

He wasn’t, he thought, gazing down at her, feeling the need he’d begun to associate with her pound through his veins. Fortunately, he also felt the control he’d always depended on and a strained but still connected thread of decency. In his line of work, he didn’t often encounter the basic sweetness and goodness Caitlin possessed. He had learned that her beauty was both inside and out. She didn’t deserve the grief he might bring her, he thought. And, actually, dammit, neither did he.

‘You said my being Elena DiFrenza’s great-grandson was part of the reason you let me stay here. What was the other part?”

“When you stretched out on the bed yesterday, your sweater pulled up enough that I could see the bottom of your bandage.”

“You saw my bandages?”

“Bandages? I saw part of one bandage.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened, relaxed, then tightened again. “What else did you see?"

“You,” she said softly, “asleep.”

Nico read the sensual awareness in her eyes with a sinking heart and a hardening body.

He could not let whatever this was between them blossom.

Unable to prevent it, his gaze dropped to her breasts, and he saw her stiffened nipples outlined against the white bodice. She shouldn’t be feeling those things, he thought with despair, even as a corresponding primitive reaction rose up inside him.

Fortunately there was something else. She had her doubts and uncertainties about him. He sensed them, heard them, as if she’d spoken them aloud.

Hold onto your doubts, Caitlin,
he silently urged.
They may be your only salvation.

Something awakened Nico. He tensed, trying to orient himself to his surroundings. Raising up on his elbows, he scanned the darkened room until he was sure he was alone, then collapsed back onto the pillows and drew a hand across his sweat-soaked brow. He had been dreaming of lovely green-gold eyes and ugly copper-and-brass bullets.

Immediately after dinner, he had pleaded fatigue and retired to his room, badly needing distance between Caitlin and himself. Once In bed, he’d fallen into a deep sleep. But now he heard something.

Music. A lilting melody drifted through the open windows and into his room with the night air. What was that tune? It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place It. And who was playing music at—he checked his watch—midnight?

He rolled off the bed, reached for his pants, and dressed so quickly that he left the room without taking time to button his shirt.

Following the music, he made his way through the halls and rooms of the huge house. He walked through shades of darkness and shadows overlaid by shadows, and he didn’t once think of his reasons for coming to SwanSea. It was the music that drew him. Or so he told himself.

Downstairs in one of the drawing rooms, where dustcovers took on the odd shapes of the furniture beneath them, he discovered the source of the music—an old upright Victrola phonograph with a 78-rpm record playing on it. And outside the open doors on the veranda, Caitlin stood at the balustrade. “Caitlin?”

She turned, her absorbed expression clearing as she saw him. “Hi. What are you doing up?”

“The music woke me."

She looked startled for a moment, then glanced up to his room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about being on the same side of the house as your bedroom.” “It’s all right.” He slid his hands into his pockets and strolled toward her, his gaze roaming intently over her. She was wearing peach satin lounging pajamas, with the legs wide at the bottom, a lacy camisole, and her hair like fire against the oveijacket. She looked too beautiful, too desirable.

He felt too much on edge, too full of desire.

He should return to his room, he thought, and in the next moment gave in to his curiosity. “What are you doing up?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It just seems to be one of those nights when I’m finding it hard to go to sleep.”

“Do you have many nights like that?” “Occasionally . . . when the events of the day refuse to be still and rest until the morning.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Was it? she wondered. Actually, she was too caught up in him to be sure of what she'd said. She had only to cast her eyes to the enticing space between the edges of his unbuttoned shirt to see the fine black hair that covered his chest. And she had only to Inhale to breathe In the masculine scent of his flesh. “What about you? Do you ever have trouble sleeping?”

“Not lately,” he said, a tinge of self-disgust in his tone. “I put my head on the pillow, and I go out like a light. ”

She laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort. “It won’t last. You 'll get better. ”

He glanced down at her hand, feeling heat from her touch instead of the comfort she'd intended. Casually, he moved his arm and dislodged her hand.

He was trying to do what was right with her. Lord knew he was trying.

“I’m already better,” he said. “I've always healed quickly, and I had a feeling that as soon as I could escape from that damned hospital, I’d improve rapidly.”

“Escape?”

“A figure of speech. ’’ The peach satin of her outfit took on added luster in the silvery moonlight. He reached out one finger and touched the shoulder. Nice. But he was sure that the sensuousness of the material was nothing compared to her skin.

“You know, I haven’t asked what you do for a living. ”

He stilled. After a moment, he said, “I'm a lawyer.” “A lawyer? That’s interesting.”

“Not as interesting as whatever happened today to worry you so much you can’t sleep.”

She supposed it would sound strange to him if she told him that since their meeting yesterday, he had begun to dominate her thoughts to the point that the normal course of her life seemed to be altering. It sounded strange, even to her. She settled for part of the truth. “I received another postcard from my mother. This one had the Taj Mahal on the front of it.”

“So she’s visiting India. Why should that worry you?”

Her mouth twisted with rueful humor. "India doesn’t bother me. Neither does Egypt. What does is that she’s been flitting from one country to another for years now. She can’t seem to stop. It’s as if she’s searching for something.”

“And she’s done this for how long?”

“She started at the same time I entered college. We lived in Boston during my school years, and she was there for me. Back then it was just the two of us, along with Ramona, of course. It was only later that she became so restless. ”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t have one.”

He nearly came back with a lighthearted comment about how it was biologically impossible not to have a father, but the serious expression on her face kept him silent. He reached out to her, meaning to comfort her as she had tried to comfort him, but with his hand on her arm, her expression changed, and his heart skipped a beat. Desire and need—emotions he’d been attempting to keep banked down inside himself—were plainly written on her face. She wasn’t as aware of the possible repercussions as he was. She was simply a woman who wanted a man.

How long had it been since anything had been that simple for him, he wondered, beginning to harden and hurt. And why shouldn’t he allow himself the pleasure of basic simplicity where nothing mattered but the two people involved?

Why? he asked himself. Let me tell you why, Nico.

A tremor shuddered through him as he tried to control his unraveling resolve. He had no idea how long his fevered mind had shut out the dull, rhythmic, scratching sound, but he heard her say, “It’s the record. I’ll get it."

She disappeared through the high-arched doorway into the drawing room, and he eagerly seized the short time she was gone to take himself in hand. But the music began again—slow, melodic, and haunting. And then Caitlin reappeared, bringing her own melodic and haunting qualities into the air surrounding him. He drew in a deep breath and smelled her fragrance and femininity. What could he do? He couldn’t stop breathing. Was he destined always to have her scent with him, in his lungs, in his pores?

He concentrated on the music. “What is that song?”

“George Gershwin’s ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’ It’s one of my favorites. My grandfather saw to it that I cut my teeth on Gershwin and Cole Porter.
Literally."
She laughed softly as she remembered. “He sang songs like ‘Isn’t It Romantic,’ and ‘Em-braceable You’ to me as lullabies, and later, when I was older, he danced me around and around the ballroom to ‘Night and Day' and ‘Begin the Beguine’, with my feet on his.”

For years, Jake Deverell’s pictures had filled newspapers as he troubleshot one world crisis or another for the government. Nico tried to imagine this powerful, formidable man dancing with his granddaughter while she balanced on his toes. He found he liked the picture. But even more, he liked the image of her in his own arms.

She laughed again, and the silvery sound stroked his spine.

“It was quite a sight, I can tell you. I was such a gawky, awkward young thing. ”

“You must have been a beautiful child, because you take my breath away as a woman.”

Suddenly, inevitably, her body was burning for his touch. “Dance with me,” she whispered huskily.

At first he wasn’t sure he had understood her. “What?”

She moved to him and put her arms around him. “Dance with me.”

A shock of heat ran through him and told him everything he needed to know about why he had been so careful until now to avoid holding her in his arms. Instinctively he had realized how it would be to have her against him. She was satin, sweetsmelling skin, and soft curves. Everything lovely and desirable. And inside he was dying with need for her.

She stared up at him, her head back, the long line of her throat exposed, her hair streaming down her back. He put his arms around her and pulled her closer. Clouds of music and moonlight, drifts of sea breezes—and most of all Caitlin—threatened his common sense. But Nico was beginning to wonder why he was bothering to resist. She wanted him, and he sure as hell wanted her. He was playing with fire, but he had never had a burn that didn’t heal. Where was the harm?