Heiress (43 page)

Dressed in a peplumed jacket of quilted gold silk, belted at the waist and heavily padded at the shoulders, and a black velvet skirt, Abbie looked like one of the guests. For a split second, Rachel questioned how Abbie had received an invitation to the party. Then she remembered that Abbie and her mother hired themselves out to oversee all the arrangements for parties such as this one. Rachel couldn't help smiling a little as she watched the waiter acknowledge an order given by Abbie with a discreet nod of his head before she moved away.

On her way to the bar to double-check the liquor supply, Abbie stopped one of the maids and directed her to some dirty plates on a coffee table. As her mother explained their role to prospective clients, their duties were to assume all the responsibilities of the hostess, leaving her completely free to mingle with her guests. They would see to it that there was an ample supply of food and drink at all times, and make certain that ashtrays were regularly emptied and soiled plates and empty glasses quickly cleared away. Every facet—from valet parking so the driveway wouldn't be clogged with cars to the checking of wraps at the door, from the policing of the men's and ladies' rooms to keep them tidy and clean to the handling of belligerent guests who had had too much to drink, and from the initial planning of the party to the cleaning up afterward—became their obligation.

But assuming the role of hostess didn't mean that they physically did anything themselves. Still, when Abbie noticed an empty champagne glass set on the pearl-inlaid top of an antique Moroccan chest, she picked it up and carried it to the bar with her. Babs was elsewhere in the house making her own inspection tour of the rooms. Abbie usually worked behind the scenes, handling the food and drink, and rarely ventured out of the kitchen. But she'd just learned from the liquor caterer that he'd inadvertently brought only two cases of bourbon. Knowing her fellow Texans' capacity for the whiskey made with fermented corn mash, she was concerned that they might run short and wanted to check on how the supply was holding up.

She set the empty champagne glass on the counter and waited for the head bartender to finish talking to the guest at the opposite end of the long bar. When he finally turned away from him, Abbie suddenly had a clear view of the man.

MacCrea. She felt as if she'd been stabbed, the pain—the longing—was so intense. She stared at his face in profile, so compellingly masculine with its blunt angles and powerful lines. Every detail, every feature was achingly familiar to her, from the dark brush of his mustache to that curled lift of his crooked little finger.

She tried to blame her reaction on the shock of seeing him after all this time. What had it been, around three and a half months? She didn't understand how she could still love him after what he'd done. "Out of sight, out of mind". . . she thought she had succeeded so well at that. Now she realized he'd never been out of her heart. But was it really any different from the way she had been with her father—loving him even when she hated him?

The head bartender walked over to her. "Did you need something, Miss Lawson?"

"Yes." But she momentarily forgot what it was as she saw MacCrea watching her, his gaze half-lidded, but not concealing the intentness of his stare. Unwilling to let him know how much seeing him again had affected her, Abbie assumed a businesslike attitude and focused her attention on the bartender, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw MacCrea push away from the bar and walk toward her.

"Hello." His low voice caressed her. She didn't even have to close her eyes to remember the feel of his rough hands stroking her skin.

She made a determined effort to ignore him. "How is the bourbon holding out?"

"Just fine," the bartender replied.

"Good." She refused to look at MacCrea. It didn't matter. All the rest of her senses were focused on him. She was aware of every sound, every movement he made. Finally gathering her composure around her like protective armor, she turned to face him. "Was there something you wanted?"

"You," MacCrea said calmly, matter-of-factly.

A thousand times she had turned aside similar remarks from men without batting an eye, but this time she couldn't—not from MacCrea. And she wasn't going to let herself be hurt again. He'd already proved she couldn't trust him. She turned sharply and walked swiftly away from the bar, not slowing down for anything until she reached the dining room.

"Going somewhere?" MacCrea said. Abbie swung around in surprise. With all the noise and confusion of the party, she hadn't heard him following her. But there he was, towering in front of her, studying her with a glint of satisfaction.

"I'm busy," she insisted stiffly, angered that he was making an issue out of this when he knew she didn't want any more to do with him. She turned her back on him and began fussing with the garnish around the bowl of pâté.

"You're not as tough as I thought, Abbie," he drawled.

"I don't particularly care what you think—about me or anything else."

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped.

"Then why did you run away just now?"

"It certainly wasn't because I was afraid of you."

"Prove it."

"I don't have to." She was trembling inside with anger as well as his nearness. "Go away and leave me alone."

"I can't. I'm a hungry man." He spread his hand over her back, then let it glide familiarly down to her waist.

She couldn't remain indifferent to his touch, so she picked up the bowl and turned around with it, breaking the contact to face him. "Have some pâté then."

Smiling faintly, he took the bowl from her and set it back in its garnish nest, then braced a hand on the table behind her and leaned toward her. "Is that any way to talk to a fellow guest?" His breath smelled strongly of whiskey.

"You've been drinking."

"Of course. This is supposed to be a party, isn't it?" His glance swept the other guests milling about the area before coming back to her. "People usually drink at parties, don't they?"

"Yes." She looked away, angry and hurt that he was here saying all these things and stirring up her emotions because he'd had too much to drink—not because he still cared or because he wanted to make amends, but just for the hell of it.

"It's too bad you don't feel like joining me. You'd have a lot to celebrate. You see, my downhole testing system failed to pass its field tests."

She experienced a mixed reaction to his news. Although she was glad Rachel had lost the money she'd invested in it, she felt sorry for MacCrea, She knew how much the system had meant to him, and how hard he'd worked on it.

"What, no cheers?" he mocked. "I thought you'd be happy to hear it."

"I am," she said because it was what he expected her to say.

"Happy enough to have a drink with me?" MacCrea challenged, arching an eyebrow.

She hadn't realized how hard it would be to resist him, knowing she couldn't trust him, but somehow she managed it. "I'm not paid to fraternize with the guests. If you'll excuse me. . ." But when she tried to brush past him, he caught her arm.

"What do you mean by 'paid'?" A deep crease pulled his brows together as his gaze narrowed on her in sharp question.

"I happen to be a working woman with the responsibility of this party on my hands." She could feel the heat of his hand through the quilted silk of her jacket. She felt burned by the contact, and the memory of his pleasantly rough caresses. "I believe I told you once before to leave me alone. I hope I don't have to repeat myself." She hated the betraying tremor in her voice.

"I remember," he said smoothly, slowly taking his hand away, his level gaze never leaving her face. "I remember a lot of things, Abbie. More than that, I think you do, too."

Not trusting herself to respond to that, Abbie turned and retreated to the seeming chaos of the kitchen. The meeting with MacCrea had left her shaken—more shaken than she cared to admit. She tried to busy herself with something, anything that would get her mind off him. . . the way he had looked, what he was doing there, and why he had spoken to her at all. She wondered if he was regretting having done so. It hurt to think he might.

She picked up a silver coffee pot from the counter and carried it over to the tall stainless-steel urn to fill it, ignoring the constant comings and goings of the uniformed maids and waiters. As she turned away from the urn, she saw Rachel standing in the doorway, watching her.

Abbie stared at the elegant woman before her, taking in her dark hair skimmed back to emphasize the perfect oval of her face, the sparkling earrings of teardrop emeralds surrounded by glittering diamonds, and the figure-hugging gown of forest-green panne velvet that bore the unmistakable mark of Givenchy.

Suddenly Abbie was painfully conscious of her surroundings—and the coffee pot in her hand. She had known all along that sooner or later Rachel would be a guest at one of the parties. But why did it have to be tonight? And why did she have to come face to face with her in the kitchen, of all places?

Or had Rachel sought her out here deliberately? Abbie was almost certain she had. What better way for Rachel to remind her that they were no longer on equal footing? What better way to humiliate her? If that was her intent, she had succeeded, but Abbie was determined not to let her see that.

"Did you want something, Mrs. Canfield?" she inquired, icily polite.

"I was looking for the powder room, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Perhaps you could direct me."

Abbie longed to challenge that lie, but she smiled instead. "I would like to, but, as you can see, I'm busy," she said, indicating the coffee pot she was holding. "However, I'm sure one of the maids would be happy to show you where it's located." She called one of them over and instructed her to guide Mrs. Canfield to the powder room.

"How thoughtful of you," Rachel said coolly. "But then, you do seem to be very thorough in your work. The next time Lane and I decide to have a party, perhaps I'll give you a call."

Abbie felt the digging gibe and reacted instinctively. "Something tells me we'll be booked."

Rachel laughed softly, a low taunting sound, then turned with a graceful pivot and walked down the hall, a bewildered maid trailing behind her. Abbie's face felt hot, and she knew the flush wasn't caused by the heat of the warming ovens.

When Rachel rejoined the party, she drifted aimlessly from the fringes of one group to another, listening in on conversations without taking part except to smile or nod whenever her presence was noticed. Careful to stay well away from the family game room where Ross Tibbs was singing, she wandered over to the long bar and saw MacCrea at the far end, nursing a cup of coffee.

"Coffee, MacCrea? Haven't you heard this is a party?" But she felt no more festive than he obviously did.

"I never listen to rumors," he replied dryly, lifting the coffee cup to his mouth and taking a sip.

"Have you seen Abbie yet? But of course you have. You spoke to her earlier, didn't you?" Rachel said, watching closely for his reaction.

"Briefly." He nodded, his expression never losing its brooding look.

"Abbie and her mother are in charge of this party tonight. You'd think it would be awkward for them to work for people who were once their friends. I understand, though, that they've traded considerably on those friendships in order to get these parties. You'd think they would have more pride."

"Maybe pride doesn't pay the rent," MacCrea suggested.

"Maybe it only burns down houses that don't belong to you anymore," Rachel countered, the anger and bitterness over the destruction of the original Victorian mansion at River Bend resurfacing. "Excuse me. I'm going to look for Lane."

As she walked away, she saw Ross Tibbs coming toward her. She paused uncertainly, then realized there was no way to avoid meeting him.

"I was beginning to think you'd left. I'm glad you didn't," he said, looking at her in that warm way that always made her feel uncomfortable.

"I thought you were singing."

"Just taking a break between sets. This is quite a place, isn't it?" He glanced around the high-ceilinged room tastefully decorated with garlands and wreaths for the holiday season.

"Yes."

"You'd think with all these Christmas decorations there would be some mistletoe hanging somewhere, wouldn't you? But I've yet to see any. Have you?"

"No. No, I haven't. Excuse me, but I'm looking for my husband."

As she started to walk by him, he said, "I'm glad you liked the song I wrote for you, Rachel."

She stopped short. "What makes you think I did?"

"Because it made you so uncomfortable you had to leave the room."

She wanted to deny it. She wanted to tell him that it hadn't affected her at all. It was just another song—like so many other country songs. But the words wouldn't come. Instead she walked away, almost breaking into a run.

A little after midnight, Babs walked over to Abbie in the kitchen. "The party will be breaking up in another hour or so. If you want to go ahead and leave now, I'll finish up here. I know you've been up since six this morning, working with the horses."

"I am tired," Abbie admitted, conscious of the pounding in her head that just wouldn't go away. "If you're sure you can manage. . ."

"I'm sure. You run along home."

Ten minutes later Abbie left the house by the service entrance and walked along the path to the garage where she'd left her car parked. It seemed strangely quiet outside after all the clinking and clanking in the kitchen and all the laughter and noise from the party in the rest of the house. There was a faint chill in the early December air, but it felt good. She was almost to her car when she noticed the man leaning against the black pickup, one long leg negligently hooked over the other. Abbie stiffened in surprise as MacCrea casually straightened and came forward to meet her.

"I was beginning to wonder how much longer you'd be," he said. But Abbie didn't respond. She didn't trust herself to talk to him. Instead she started for her car, walking briskly and clutching the key ring like a talisman.