Windswept (21 page)

But before that, she had to think about the situation and come to her own conclusion, in her own best self-interests.

But not now. Not right this minute. The combination of Lloyd’s visit, the accompanying adrenaline rush, and the conversation at the pool and its adrenaline rush had scrambled her brain. Better to finish this small stack of papers and get a good night’s rest.

She turned to the pile and resolutely began entering the first letter’s information into the table.

“
Bwuck, bwuck, bwuck
” sounded in her head and she shook it vigorously. She wasn’t a barnyard fowl. She merely had to pick the opportune time.

***

The next afternoon, Davis tracked down his cousin on the phone at his office in St. Gregoryville.

“Lloyd, stay away from my home, Barrett Browning, and the Windswept papers,” Davis said with no preliminaries. “You have no right to the documents, and your empty threats waste all of our time.”

“Now, see here,” Lloyd sputtered. “I won’t let you ruin the family.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Yes, you are, if you let that little nobody mess around in our history.”

“All you’re doing is making vague accusations and wild statements with no facts to back them up,” Davis stated. He’d try one more time to reach Lloyd, even if he knew it was futile. “Why should I believe you? Your mother and Aunt Phyllis haven’t given you any details about this reputed ‘awful thing,’ have they? Lloyd, you’re a lawyer, for God’s sake. Think, man, you have no evidence of any wrongdoing by anybody.”

“My mother’s word is good enough for me.”

The discussion degenerated from there, despite Davis’s attempts to maintain some kind of control. Lloyd simply refused to listen to reason. He finally threatened legal action and Davis told him to go ahead and waste his money.

The word, “money,” seemed to penetrate Lloyd’s temper, and he suddenly shut his mouth. Davis let the silence hang in the air for a few seconds. Then he said, “Lloyd, you know I always protect the family.”

“Not this time, you won’t. That woman and what she writes will be the ruin of us. I’m the only one who is willing to save the family name and I am going to get my hands on those papers, no matter what,” Lloyd shouted into the receiver.

“No, you aren’t,” Davis said as evenly and calmly as he could.

“Go to hell, Davis!” Lloyd hung up.

Davis threw the receiver back on the hook and sat down at his desk. Damn! Lloyd was an idiot. He sounded more out of control than he had ever before in one of their arguments.

Davis rubbed his face with both hands. One of these days, he supposed he’d have to go over there and get the whole family together to thrash this out. But he’d wait until Barrett worked her way through more of the papers and he could prove there was nothing there to “ruin the family.” For now, at least his cousin was back home and unable to bother them, and Davis could tell Barrett to relax. But he’d tell Gonzales to keep the security alarms on.

Chapter Fifteen

Saturday afternoon, as Barrett dressed for the wedding, she reflected on the last three days. Davis hadn’t mentioned Lloyd again, and she certainly hadn’t brought up the subject. Her host had been the perfect gentleman, the comfortable friend, the interested on-looker in her historical quest. They’d discussed subjects from politics to baseball at dinner. He hadn’t repeated his kisses, either on her lips or her hands. He hadn’t touched her at all.

She--
bwuck, bwuck, bwuck
--hadn’t forced the issue, hadn’t brought up the subject of a “relationship” either.

But still . . . that tension, awareness, whatever it was, continued to surround them both and heightened each encounter, even the trivial ones.

On Friday at the bottom of yet another oversized trunk filled with 1840s correspondence, she’d found the rolled-up architectural drawings for the plantation house expansions from the first Edgar’s bedroom wing all the way to the addition of the kitchen and installation of modern bathrooms. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought his grandfather hid them. Had Granddaddy been playing games? If so, to what purpose?

She and Davis had spread the plans out on the long table in the conference room after dinner and studied them, standing side by side.

“Look here,” Davis had said, pointing to the kitchen diagram. “I never realized the present kitchen wasn’t added on until the nineteen-twenties. They must have been still cooking in the original unattached kitchen up to then.”

“And probably still using the fireplace as the stove,” Barrett had added and she’d rummaged through the plan scrolls. “Wait a minute, I think . . . Yes, here it is.” She’d pulled out a five-foot-by-four-foot paper and anchored the corners with the scissors, a utility knife, a yardstick, and a roll of tape. “This is the master plan. See, it shows the other buildings.”

Braced on one arm, she’d leaned over the table to study the structures at the top of the sheet and pointed to the various buildings with her free hand. “Here’s the milk house, the laundry, and the old kitchen. The laundry shows the water pipes, the sinks, and I think this round object may be a washing machine or a permanently placed tub.” She had rested her finger on the drawing.

“Right.” Davis had leaned over also. “There’s the fireplace in the kitchen and the baking oven in the wall next to it. This area in front is designated ‘hearth.’” He tapped his finger on the objects. “I don’t see any indication of even a wood-burning stove or an additional chimney for it, do you?”

“No,” she had said after studying the drawing, “I don’t.” She had raised her head and found herself looking straight into his eyes, their heads no more than a foot apart, their shoulders almost touching. In the cool air-conditioned room, the warmth of his body had been palpable and oh, so alluring. Her gaze had fallen to his lips and when she had raised it to his eyes again, the heat in the hazel depths had been scorching. She had felt the strongest need to move into his arms and claim his incandescence for her own.

Only by the absolute application of will had she managed to pull back and straighten. She’d made some comment--probably an exposition on open-hearth cooking, but she couldn’t remember now--and busied herself with another drawing while she’d tried to calm her suddenly galloping heartbeat. When she’d finally summoned the courage to glance back at his face, he was studying another plan, but a satisfied smile had lurked under his black mustache.

The man was a devil, no doubt about it.

His pursuit of her wasn’t her imagination. They had to talk soon. But first, the wedding.

She pulled the gauzy, light blue dress over her head and zipped up the back. Then she twirled before the mirror. The full short skirt flared; it was a wonderful dress to dance in. The V-neck, deeper in back than in front, set off the slight tan she was acquiring from her swims. Thank goodness the dark blue jacket made it proper to wear in church.

She put on her silver earrings with the sapphire drops and the matching pendant necklace, a gift from her parents when she received her B.A., slipped on her shoes and the jacket, and gave herself a once-over, front and back. She’d tamed her curls as best she could, and they’d just have to do.

Picking up her purse and the present she’d run out to buy yesterday, she took a deep breath and opened her door. Time to go to the wedding.

Davis was talking with Gonzales in the foyer as she came down the stairs. He was wearing one of his power suits again, this one navy, with a crisp white shirt and a small-patterned, red-and-blue tie. He must have heard her step because he glanced up and seemed to freeze for a moment as he ran his gaze from her curls to her shoes and back up. She could almost feel the heat from his eyes and she stopped, transfixed. He looked both formidable and fascinating.

Then he broke the spell by grinning. “What? No T-shirt?”

“I didn’t have one with frills and lace,” she retorted with an answering grin.

He took the present from her and gestured toward the door. “Come on, then, Cinderella. Your carriage awaits.”

***

She did feel like a fairy-tale princess, she thought later, as she whirled around the dance floor in Davis’s arms. In a ballroom full of handsome men, she was certain she was dancing with the prince--and to a waltz, no less.

She detected the fine hand of the bride’s mother in the selection of dance tunes, which were ranging from old-fashioned waltzes and fox-trots to the latest cha-chas, rumbas, and sambas. The swing, jitterbug, and plain old rock and roll were yet to come. Elena Tejeda had always loved to dance, whatever the music. She’d taught all the neighborhood children, too.

Mama Elena also liked handsome men, and when Barrett had introduced her to Davis in the receiving line, she’d sized him up immediately and given Barrett a wink. Of course, when Davis had bowed over Mama Elena’s hand and murmured, “It’s always a pleasure to meet a beautiful woman,” he had won her over completely. She had whispered in Barrett’s ear, “This is definitely the right man for you.”

Since Barrett knew the bride’s family and Davis was acquainted with the groom’s, they had no problems fitting in with the crowd, a number of whom had gone to high school with Barrett and Angela. Davis didn’t seem to mind listening to their reminiscences. In fact, from some of his conversations with her friends and their families, it looked like he had attracted possible new investors.

She wasn’t surprised at this turn of events. A gathering such as this would be an excellent opportunity to further his business interests. She had noticed the cordiality with which the groom’s father greeted Davis. Evidently their investments had gone well.

The waltz ended and he ushered her back to their table with his hand on the small of her back. They were back to touching again, she realized. Nothing overt, just holding hands every once in a while, or his arm was around the back of her chair at the table, or he was standing just slightly behind her so their arms touched.

He was pleasant to her male friends, but she caught the exchanged “looks” from time to time. It reminded her of her brothers’ attitudes when they were dating the women who became their wives--definite “stay-away-she’s-mine” orders. She soon had confirmation. When she was dancing with a classmate, he asked her if she and Davis had something going. She replied in the negative; she was simply studying some old papers that Davis owned. With a very dubious note in his voice, her friend said, “I don’t know . . . The look he gave me said I’d better return you to him safe and sound.” She scoffed at the remark, but she also noted he didn’t delay escorting her to Davis after the dance.

Guys’ games, she thought and stifled a snort. But did Davis think he had a right to do it? They’d have to talk soon.

Davis stood when she returned to their table. He took her hand and said, “Let’s circulate. My mother taught me to always dance with the hostess.”

While Davis danced with Mama Elena, Barrett was Papa Jose’s partner. Jose proceeded to question her closely about Davis and didn’t seem to like her bland off-putting answers. When the music ended, he told her, “I have discussed Davis Jamison with Juan Morales and a few others. This is a good, honorable man, Barrett. I worry about you. It’s about time for you to marry and settle down.”

“Please, Papa Jose,” she begged, feeling heat rise to her face, “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry on my account.”

“Now, Barrett,” he said. “Angela finally found her Diego. You will find your man, too. Besides, your parents couldn’t make it to the wedding and asked me to look out for you. What kind of neighbor would I be if I didn’t follow their wishes?”

“Thank you,” she said and asked a question to change the subject. She didn’t need a matchmaker.

Davis was dancing with Mrs. Morales when Barrett returned to the group around the Tejedas’ table. His absence seemed to have its own effect, as one man after another asked her to dance. The result was she remained on the floor through several sets, moving from one partner to the next. She had to smile. She’d always been popular, but never like this. None of the men held her close or even flirted much, but several asked questions, mostly business related, about Davis.

After yet another dance with yet another old friend, Barrett decided she needed something cool to drink and headed for the bar. As she sipped some cold water, she looked around for Davis and saw him in deep conversation with Jose Tejeda, Juan Morales, and several other men important in the Hispanic community. He was obviously too busy to dance with her, and she felt vaguely disappointed. She put the thought aside to talk with two of the Tejeda sisters.

Several minutes later, the band started a tango and Davis appeared in front of her. With the grin of a rogue reminding her again of his grandfather, he asked, “Do you know how to tango?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s Mama Elena’s favorite, and she made sure all of us know how.” She nodded toward the couples, the Tejedas among them, already beginning the dance.

He held out his hand and she went with him.

Once on the dance floor, he took her in his arms and swung her into the long gliding steps and dips of the tango.

Barrett gave herself up to the music pulsating with the beat, the feel of their bodies brushing, touching, moving in close unison, and the man gazing at her with dark eyes. He led with mastery, with subtle but clear indications, with understanding of the stylized sensuality of the dance.

But the way he held her, looked at her, pulled her to him had nothing to do with the conventional elegance of the tango and everything to do with its heat, its glamour, its passion. She was entranced when the final chords sounded and he laid her back in a low dip.

As the band segued into a slow, sultry song, Davis raised her without a word. He kept her close, drew their clasped hands to his chest, and moved into a languid step that became little more than a sway as others packed the floor.

When he laid the edge of his jaw against her temple, Barrett shut her eyes and floated. She could feel the heat of his hand on her back, his thumb rubbing her bare skin just above the back of her dress. She could smell his woodsy after-shave and the pure male beneath the suit. She was beguiled, she was enticed, she was . . . seduced. She’d analyze all this later, she decided. Right now she’d just enjoy. She sighed and ran her left hand up over his shoulder.