Winter Bride (9780345546197) (2 page)

“Yes.” A small smile touched Townsend’s lips. “I must admit I was rather glad to hear you did so well after you broke with him and left the castle. Your success was a source of great rage and disappointment to him.” He lifted his brows inquiringly. “I imagine you have no real need for his money?”

“No need at all. I could have bought and sold him anytime in the past five years.” Jed smiled grimly. “And I would have taken great pleasure in doing it, but I didn’t want anything that belonged to my father.”

“How fortunate for you.” Townsend hesitated. “Then I’m afraid my journey is going to prove futile. I was asked to put a request to you.”

Jed turned to look at him. “Request?”

“Your stepmother sent me. She was the sole beneficiary but suggests you meet with her to
discuss a possible settlement in return for a certain favor she intends to ask of you.”

Jed laughed mirthlessly. “Good God, what next? Cherry and I were never close enough to exchange favors”—he smiled crookedly—“though she offered me a few interesting invitations before I left the castle. The only reason I didn’t take advantage of them was that I knew she was too dumb to realize my father would kick her out on her derriere when he found out.”

“Cherry?” Townsend frowned, puzzled.

“My voluptuous but slightly dim-witted stepmother,” Jed said impatiently.

“Oh, no,” the lawyer stated. “Your father divorced Cherry Winston Corbin some time ago. He’d married twice afterward. His widow and beneficiary is Ysabel Belfort Corbin.”

“Stepmother number five,” Jed murmured. “I should have realized.… His women never lasted more than a year or two. And what does the lady want from me?”

“I have no idea. She didn’t give me her confidence. She only asked me to see you personally and request you come to her.”

“Well, you’ve made your request. Tell her she has nothing to offer me that I need.”

“I thought as much.” Townsend sighed. “But I had to try. I felt a little sorry for the young woman.”

“Why?” Jed smiled. “She’s obviously going to be a very rich widow. How long did she stick with the bastard?”

“Seven years.”

Jed gave a low whistle. “Then she deserves every penny.”

“More than you know. Toward the end of your father’s illness her life was almost unbearable.”

“But she had such a bright golden future to look forward to, didn’t she?”

“I don’t believe …” Townsend hesitated. “I don’t think she married him for his money.”

Jed laughed incredulously. “You’re saying she cared about him?”

“I didn’t say that. She just doesn’t impress me as the kind of woman who … She’s not like the others.”

“And what is she like?”

“A quiet little thing, rather fragile, almost otherworldly.” Townsend’s lips tightened. “Your father bullied her unmercifully. She was little more than a slave to him.”

“A very pampered slave, I’m sure. Beautiful?”

“Exceptionally.”

“Then she had a ticket to leave at any time. Beautiful women are welcomed wherever they go. She chose to stay with the bastard.” He gathered up his cases and headed for the door. “My taxi is waiting.”

“Then your answer is an unequivocal no?”

“I thought I’d made that clear,” Jed said as he opened the door. “Even if I were tempted to go back to the castle, I have more on my plate right now than I can handle.”

Townsend followed him. “She appears rather desperate. I’m sure she would comply to almost any terms you’d care to offer. Winter Castle is quite a valuable property.”

“Who would buy it? It was only a monument to my father’s vanity and king complex. No one wants turrets and drawbridges in this day and age. It’s as much an anachronism as the London Bridge they stuck out in that Arizona desert.”

“What about Winter Island itself? An island within a twenty-minute boat ride to Seattle is a very valuable …” He trailed off as he saw Jed shake his head. “You’re sure there’s nothing you’d like to have?”

“You’re damn right I’m sure. What could she—” He stopped.

A woman wrapped in a white ermine-trimmed velvet cloak, her dark hair shimmering as brightly as the icicles hanging from the branches of the tree under which she was standing
.

“You’ve thought of something?” Townsend asked.

Great dark eyes wide with apprehension as she looked at the castle on the hill
.

He had willed himself to forget her but now he knew he never had.

And, great heavens, what a joke on his dear departed father. Arnold Corbin would be roaring in rage from hell at the idea of Jed owning his most valued possession. The image brought him a savage sense of satisfaction that astonished him. He had thought he had rid himself of the resentment and thirst for vengeance that had possessed him when he left the castle. Now they were back in full force, and it made no difference at all that his enemy had already been vanquished by the final antagonist. Why not? By God, he
would
have it!

“Yes, I’ve thought of something I want,” Jed said softly. “Tell my dear stepmaman I can’t come at once but to expect me.” He closed the door and strode down the hall toward the elevators with Townsend at his heels. “She can definitely expect me.”

A hand clapped over Ysabel’s mouth, jarring her from sleep.

“It’s all right. Keep quiet. I have no intention of hurting you.”

Darkness. Fear. Danger.
Guardia!

Her eyes flew open, and her heart beat wildly. The palm sealing her lips was callused and hard. She was too terrified to register there was no brutality in the grasp.

She started to struggle, trying frantically to escape that smothering hand.

“I tell you it’s okay. Just let me—”

Her teeth sank deep into his palm.

He gasped in pain and jerked his hand away. “Dammit, I told you I wasn’t—”

She punched him in the midsection with her fist.

She heard a grunt of pain as she rolled out of bed
and onto the floor. She sprang to her feet and ran for the door leading to the hall.

He tackled her before she was halfway across the room, flipped her over on the floor, and straddled her.

“Listen to me. Just let me explain.”

Something was vaguely familiar about his deep voice, but she had no time to analyze. Imprisoned between his thighs, she couldn’t knee him, but her hands were still free and his genitals must be in reach.… Her fist struck hard, fast and accurate.

He groaned and collapsed on top of her, fumbling in the darkness for her wrists. He captured both of them and pinned her to the floor.

“Let me go or I swear I’ll castrate you,” she hissed.

“You damn near already did. I’ll be more careful about accepting your next invitation to visit.” The words were spoken in almost a growl, but the voice was as musical as the bass notes of a piano.

She
had
heard that voice before. She stopped struggling. “Who are you?”

“Your loving stepson.” He raised himself to a sitting position astride her. “Jed Corbin. Will you attack me again if I turn your arms loose?”

“Of course not.” Relief turned her every muscle weak. “Though it was entirely your own fault if I hurt you. When you frightened me, I acted instinctively.”

“Then your instincts are fairly lethal,” he said dryly. “And Townsend must be a lousy judge of character.”

She was suddenly acutely conscious of the hardness
of his thighs cradling her hips, the scent of soap and after-shave lotion drifting to her in the darkness. “Will you …” Her voice was slightly breathless and she paused to steady it. “… please get off me?”

“Since you ask so nicely.” He didn’t move and she became aware of a subtle change in his body, a sensual intonation in his voice. “Though I’m tempted to explore the situation further. I’ve never realized how close to the primitive we are in moments of conflict. It’s very … arousing.”

She felt a flutter of fear and stiffened, ready to attack again.

“For Lords sake, I’ve no intention of raping you.” A moment later his weight was gone and he was moving across the room toward the nightstand. “I just thought you might be similarly inclined.”

“Why are you here?”

“You asked me to come.”

“Not like this. Not in the middle of the night, with no warning or—”

“I just flew in from Paris and preferred our visit be private. Not that I imagined anyone would kill the fatted calf for me. I’ve never been made to feel particularly welcome here.” He turned on the lamp on the nighstand and was immediately surrounded by a pool of soft light. “However, I didn’t anticipate this kind of reception. I assumed Townsend’s delicate little flower would give me a chance to explain before she swooned in terror.”

He looked the same as he had on television and yet there were significant differences. He wasn’t as tall as she had thought, barely six feet in height, but every inch was solidly knit. The faded jeans he
wore outlined the heavy muscles of his thighs and the tight compactness of his buttocks, and the pushed-up sleeves of his black turtleneck sweat-shirt revealed tanned, powerful forearms. He appeared tougher. The aura he exuded was rougher, more reckless, and his face was more vibrantly alive beneath that cropped cap of silver hair.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” She sat up and got to her knees. “But I’m glad you came, Mr. Corbin.”

He peered into the shadows where she knelt. “No complaints, no outrage at my rough treatment?”

“I’m sure you fared worse than I did.”

“I’m sure too.”

“How did you get here?”

“I rented a speed boat in Seattle and docked on the other side of the island.” He squinted his eyes. “I can barely see you over there. What the hell are you wearing? Some kind of costume?”

“Just a robe.” She stood up and tried to tidy her tousled hair. “I’d like to thank you for coming to hear me out. Suppose we get down to—”

He stiffened. “That’s not just any robe.” He suddenly muttered a curse, his ice-blue eyes glittering. “Come over here into the light where I can see you.”

She hesitated and then moved slowly across the room toward him.

He watched her, his eyes narrowed, his stance strangely tense. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

She stopped before him, bracing herself as his gaze traveled over the sleek lines of the long white
velvet gown with its golden girdle to the matching gold braid on the flowering sleeves.

“The Winter Bride.” He threw back his head and laughed uproariously but entirely without mirth. “Good God, I can’t believe it.” He grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the door. “I’ve got to see you together. Is she still in the library?”

“Yes, but I don’t want—”

He ignored her protest, pulling her down the hall and down the curved flight of steps.

“Please, there’s no sense to this,” she said quietly. “You’ve already seen … You know we’re alike.”

“I have to be sure.” His harsh tone belied the smile baring his teeth. “Trust the old man to manage to get it all.” He threw open the door to the library and switched on the overhead light, his gaze going to the painting over the fireplace. “He always did have the luck of the devil.” He pulled her over to stand in front of the mantel. “Let’s see just how lucky the bastard was.”

She didn’t have to glance at the painting to know what he was seeing. She knew every brush stroke, every shading of color. The anonymous artist had portrayed a young woman, scarcely more than a child, dressed in an ivory-colored medieval-style gown and ermine-trimmed cloak and standing alone beneath an ice-flocked tree. She was staring at the castle in the background, her eyes wide with fear and anticipation. Ysabel ignored the painting and stared at Jed Corbin. Dear God, he was angry, she realized in bewilderment. She could almost feel the furnace-hot waves of emotion he was exuding.

“Exquisite,” he said softly, looking at her face. “Same marvelous bone structure, same impossibly long lashes, same dark eyes and hair.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his forefinger. “Lord, even the textures are the same. Your skin feels just as silky as it looks in the picture.”

Her skin seemed to burn beneath his touch, but it had to be her imagination.

His gaze moved down her throat to her breasts. “A little more voluptuous than the Bride’s but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?” Something glinted, then burned in those light blue eyes. Another wave of anger seemed to have been ignited in him.

“Will you let me go please? You’re hurting my wrist.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to cause you discomfort. All brides should be treated with gentleness and care.” He released her wrist and stepped back. “As I’m sure my father taught you.”

She absently rubbed her wrist. “Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not—the
hell
I’m not.” He drew a deep ragged breath. “He’s won again. I thought I saw a way to get some of my own back, but he’s blocked me again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He not only had his precious painting, he had the real Winter Bride.” His movements were charged with barely contained violence as he strode across the room and threw himself in a chair. “Where the hell did he find you?”

“San Miguel.”

“The island off the coast of South America?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a citizen of San Miguel?”

“My mother was a citizen, my father was American.” She made an impatient gesture. “This has no importance. Can’t we talk about why I’ve asked you to come here?”

“It’s important to me.” He touched his fingertips together in a Confucius-like gesture that should have looked serene; it didn’t. “I find everything about this bizarre relationship between you and my father completely fascinating.” His gaze ran over her. “My Lord, you look like someone from
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
. Did it titillate him to see you like this?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’m sure it did. Seven years … How old are you now?”

“I can’t see how—twenty-three.”

His gaze shifted to the painting. “Practically a child bride. You must have looked even more like her then.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How lucky for you.”

“Yes.”

“And how long did it take my father to persuade you to join him in wedded bliss after you met?”