Dream Trilogy (73 page)

He parked between the island of spring bulbs and the grand front entrance. And if he’d been wearing a tie, he would have tugged at it.

Nerves. They amazed him, disgusted him. But no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he felt like some pimply-faced teenager on a first date.

Ignoring the sky dusted with icy stars, the sheen of silvering moonlight, the scent of sea and flowers, he walked to the door like a man taking his last mile in shackles.

How the hell had he let himself get talked into this?

He’d never used the front door at Templeton House. As a boy, if he came by for Josh, or came along with him, he used the side or rear. The entrance was so damned imposing, grandly tall, recessed, and framed in tile. The knocker was a huge brass affair in the shape of a stylized T. Over his head hung an antique carriage light.

It didn’t make him feel welcome.

Nor did Ann Sullivan when she opened the door to his knock. She stood, tight-lipped, in her starched black dress. He noted first that the years sat lightly on her. She was a lovely woman, if you looked past the jaundiced eye. Margo had come by her looks naturally.

“Mr. Fury.” The faint hint of Ireland in her voice might have been charming if it hadn’t been so damning.

Because for reasons he couldn’t name he’d always wanted her approval, she put his back up. His smile was insolent. His voice matched it. “Mrs. Sullivan. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” she returned, clearly telling him it hadn’t been nearly long enough. “You’re to come in.”

He accepted the grudging invitation and stepped into the soaring foyer. The ivory and peacock-blue tiles were the same, he noted. As was the gorgeously ornate chandelier that sprinkled light. The place was welcoming, even if its doyenne wasn’t. It was full of cozy scents, rich color, warming light.

“I’ll tell Miss Laura you’re here.”

But as she turned to do so, Laura came down the wide, curving steps. Though Michael would tell himself later that he was a fool, his heart stopped.

The lights caught the fussy beads of her jacket and shot color. Beneath was a simple dress the color of moondust. There were jewels at her ears, sapphires and diamonds, framing the face that her swept-back hair accented.

She looked so perfect, so lovely, with one ringless hand trailing along the glossy banister. She might have stepped out of a painting.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Her voice was cool, betraying none of her panic at the way those eyes of his bored into her, or her fluster at having to mop up after the dog.

“Just got here,” he said, equally cool. Then some of the absurdity struck him. Here he was, Michael Fury, holding out a hand for a princess. “I wasn’t supposed to bring, like, a corsage or something, was I?”

She managed a small smile of her own. “It’s not the prom.”

“Amen to that.”

“You be careful, Miss Laura.” Ann shot a warning look at Michael. “And you drive responsibly, boy-o. It isn’t one of your races.”

“Annie, the dog’s in with the girls, but—”

“Don’t you worry.” She gestured toward the door, thinking philosophically that the sooner they were gone, the sooner she’d have her girl back. “I’ll take care of him, and them. Try to enjoy yourself.”

“And I’ll try to bring her back in one piece,” Michael added, for the hell of it, as he opened the door.

“See that you do,” Ann muttered and began to worry the moment the door closed.

“It’s nice of you to drive me to the club.” She would put things on the proper footing, Laura determined. And keep them there. “You don’t have to feel obliged to entertain me once we’re there.”

He’d been planning to say pretty much the same thing himself, but he resented her saying it first. He opened her door, leaned on it. “Who are you pissed off at, Laura? Me, or the world in general?”

“I’m not angry with you or anyone.” Gracefully, she slipped into the passenger seat of his Porsche. “I’m simply explaining matters so that we get through the evening comfortably.”

“And here you said you liked mongrels.”

She blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right.” He resisted—barely—slamming the door. The evening, he thought as he rounded the hood, was off to a flying start.

It could have been worse, Michael supposed. He could have been back in some Central American jungle sweating bullets and dodging them. He could have had his skull bashed in, as he had once when a stunt gag went wrong.

Instead he was standing in a room with people he didn’t know and didn’t care to know.

He’d rather have had his skull bashed in.

He thought the room itself was overly cute, with its glossy red hearts hanging from swatches of paper lace. The flowers were nice, he supposed. He didn’t have any objection to flowers. But he thought they carried the obsessive red and white theme too far.

All of the pink-draped tables were centered with a grouping of white tapers ringed by a halo of fluffy red and white carnations. At least he thought they were carnations. And the music. He decided it represented the widest culture clash, with its mild strings and discreet piano, all played by middle-aged men in white suits.

Give him blues or honest rock any day.

But there was a spiffy view of the coastline through a wall of windows. The drama of it, the war of fretful waves against mean-edged rocks, provided an interesting contrast to the quiet, undeniably stuffy group inside the polished, overheated club.

The women had decked themselves out, absolutely dripping bangles and beads and other jewelry, he noted. They wore layers of perfumes and silks and lace. Overdone, in his estimation, like the decor. He preferred Laura’s simple and feminine choice. It was class, he supposed, that set her apart. Simple class that came straight through the blood and bone. He might have mentioned it to her, but she had drifted away quickly, making, as he termed it, her Templeton rounds.

Most of the men were in tuxes. A little fact that Josh had conveniently neglected to mention. Not that Michael minded. He wouldn’t have worn one anyway. If he’d had one to wear.

Still it gave him another bone to pick with his old friend. If the slippery son of a bitch ever showed up.

On the bright side, he had a cold beer in his hand. The finger food spread out artistically on buffet tables looked delicate, but it tasted fine. He’d already enjoyed a mild flirtation with a woman who mistook him for some Hollywood young gun. Michael hadn’t bothered to disabuse her.

He was considering wandering about, maybe taking a turn outside in the fresh air or checking out one of the other rooms. He might find that pool table and a few suckers to fleece. Then Laura moved back to him.

“I’m sorry. There were a few people I needed to speak with.” In a gesture that was both absentminded and automatic, she accepted a glass of champagne from a roving waiter, murmured her thanks.

“No problem.”

But it was, she thought, her problem. She’d had some time to think about it. “I am sorry, Michael. I was annoyed with Josh for maneuvering me into this evening and I took it out on you.” When he didn’t respond, she drummed up a smile. “So, what were you and Kitty Bennett talking about?”

“Who? Oh, the ditzy brunette with all the teeth.”

Laura choked on her champagne. She’d never heard the chair of the Monterey Arts Council described just that way. Or quite that accurately. “Yes.”

“She dug my last flick.”

“Did she?”

He decided to be friendly, smiled. “Not
Braveheart,
though I had a couple of nice stunts in it. She thought I was the director of some art house film. Something about foot fetishes.”

“Mm-hmm. And you discussed the metaphoric twists on our sex-obsessed society, along with the multiple layers of symbolism representing moral decay.”

He started to feel better. “Something like that. She thinks I’m brilliant, and underrated. I think I might be getting a grant.”

“Congratulations.”

“Of course, she really only wanted my body.”

“Well, an artist must make sacrifices. Ah, there’s Byron and Kate.”

Michael glanced over. His brows rose in surprise as he saw the streamlined brunette in slinky black. The gamine face, all sloe-colored eyes, and the close-cropped dark hair tipped him off, though the girl he remembered had been skinny, coltish—a borderline nerd.

“That’s Kate? Kate Powell?”

“She works out now,” Laura muttered. “She’s gotten obsessive about it, so don’t get her started.”

“That her trainer?” Michael muttered back, measuring the broad-shouldered, long-limbed man beside her.

“And husband. He’s also my boss. Byron.” She held out a hand as the couple maneuvered through the crowd toward them. A quick kiss and she turned to Kate. “Margo was right, as usual. The Karan suits you. Byron De Witt, Michael Fury.”

“Nice to meet you. Kate’s been telling me stories.”

“And I didn’t even need to exaggerate.” Grinning, she stepped forward and gave Michael a quick, friendly hug.

Her arms might have been lean, Michael noted, but they were tough. Enjoying her, he drew her back. “Katie Powell. Looking good.”

Because she’d always enjoyed him as well, she wiggled her brows. “Same goes, Mick.”

“Can I get drinks for anyone?” Byron asked in a voice that reminded Michael of mint juleps and magnolia.

“I’ll have what Laura’s having,” Kate decided.

“Michael?”

“Bass ale.”

“That ought to go down just fine,” Byron decided. “I think I’ll join you. Excuse me a minute.”

“It’s the Southern,” Kate said, watching him walk toward the bar with a proprietary and satisfied gleam in her eye. “He’s just a gentleman.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s just the dress that suits you,” Michael commented.

“It’s not.” Kate turned back, smiled warmly. “And unlike the dress, which goes back into stock tomorrow, he’s all mine. So, how the hell are you, Michael Fury, and when do we get to see your horses?”

It was so easy for Kate, Laura thought as she listened, to make the appropriate comments. She’d fallen right into casual conversation with Michael. Didn’t she feel any of those . . . oh, she hated to use the term “vibes,” but it was the only word that came to her. Dark, restless, dangerous vibes. It made her jittery to stand next to him, to encounter a brush of his arm against hers, to catch that gleam in his hot blue eyes.

It helped when Josh and Margo arrived. There was more conversation, and laughter. Byron fell into an easy discussion of horses with Michael. Apparently Byron’s family owned several. Before the topic switched to cars—another interest the men shared—Byron had arranged to take a look at Michael’s stock.

It wasn’t difficult to ease away again and draw Margo with her. “So,” Margo began, “are you enjoying yourself? You and Michael are getting some speculative looks.”

Nothing could have been better designed to set Laura off. She could see it now, perfectly, and wondered how she’d missed the master plan.

Her temper hitched, but she controlled it.

“Is that part of your little plot? To give the country club set an eyeful of poor Laura and her escort?”

“When the escort looks like Michael.” Margo waved an impatient hand. “Oh, lighten up, Laura. It’s only one evening out of your life, and why shouldn’t you spend part of it with a good-looking man? God knows, you’ve been hiding out long enough.”

“Hiding out.” There was that hitch again. “Is that what you call it?”

“Don’t.” Regretting her choice of words, Margo put a hand on Laura’s arm. “I just meant that you’ve been so focused on work and responsibility, you haven’t let yourself have much fun. So have some. Ask him to dance, take a walk, whatever, before he and Byron bond like Siamese twins over engine talk.”

“I don’t want to dance, or take a walk with Michael,” Laura said evenly. Now she felt pathetic. The homely younger sister, the neglected wallflower, the pitiable ex-wife. “And I’m relieved that he’s found something to salvage his evening. He’s been miserably bored.”

“Then you haven’t been doing your job, have you?” Irritated herself, Margo inclined her head. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be friendly to the man, Laura. In fact, it would be good for you and everyone in close proximity to you if you had a nice hot bout of sex with him and popped your own frustration cork.”

Laura’s calm gray eyes turned to steel. “Oh, really? I hadn’t realized that those in close proximity were so affected by my lifestyle.”

“Hey.” Recognizing the signs of a battle in progress, Kate sidled up. “Are we fighting?”

“Laura’s peeved because we made her come here with Michael tonight.”

“I like Mick.” Kate chose an olive from her tiny plate and popped it into her mouth. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m peeved,” Laura returned, emphasizing the word, “because Margo apparently thinks I should jump into bed with him so that she and my other friends don’t have to put up with my sexual frustration.”

Kate glanced around to where Michael and Byron and Josh stood. “Couldn’t hurt,” she said with a shrug. “If I wasn’t a happily married woman I’d consider it myself.”

“That’s nice for you, isn’t it? For both of you happily married women. Christ, I hope I wasn’t ever so smug.” Training overcame temper just enough that she managed to walk away instead of stalking.

“Wrong buttons,” Kate muttered. “We definitely pushed the wrong buttons.”

“It’s past time some of them were pushed.” But Margo sighed before sipping her wine. “I don’t mind making her angry, but I didn’t mean to make her unhappy. I just hoped that she’d enjoy herself, let Michael entertain her. And eventually screw her brains out.”

Kate chuckled. “You’re a considerate friend, Margo. Hell, are we smug?”

“I’m afraid so.”

 

A few minutes in the ladies’ lounge cooled Laura off. She sat on one of the dainty padded stools at the long, mirrored counter and meticulously reapplied her lipstick.