Inner Harbor (34 page)

“You're wrong. He was worried about you. Can I persuade you to take a break from work?”

“All right.” She saved her file, shut down the machine. “I'm glad we're not angry with each other. It only complicates things. I saw Seth this afternoon.”

“So I hear.”

She accepted the wine, sipped. “Did you and your brothers clean up the house?”

He gave her a pained and pitiful look. “I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to have nightmares as it is.” He took her hand, drew her over to the sofa. “Let's talk about something less frightening. Seth showed me the charcoal sketch of his boat that you helped him with.”

“He's really good. He catches on so quickly. Really listens, pays attention. He's got a fine eye for detail and perspective.”

“I saw the one you did of the house, too.” Casually, Phillip leaned forward for the bottle and topped off her wine. “You're really good, too. I'm surprised you didn't pursue art as a profession.”

“I had lessons as a girl. Art, music, dance. I took a few courses in college.” Desperately relieved that they were no longer at odds, she settled back and enjoyed her wine. “It wasn't anything serious. I'd always known I'd go into psychology.”

“Always?”

“More or less. The arts aren't for people like me.”

“Why?”

The question confused her, put her on guard. “It wasn't practical. Did you say you had beluga in there?”

There, he thought, the first step back. He'd simply have to go around her. “Mmm-hmm.” He took out the container and the toast points, refilled her glass. “What instrument do you play?”

“Piano.”

“Yeah? Me, too.” He shot her an easy smile. “We'll have to work up a duet. My parents loved music. All of us play something.”

“It's important that a child learn to appreciate music.”

“Sure, it's fun.” He spread a toast point, offered it. “Sometimes the five of us would kill a Saturday night playing together.”

“You all played together? That was nice. I always hated playing in front of anyone. It's so easy to make a mistake.”

“So what if you did? Nobody's going to cut off your fingers for hitting a sour note.”

“My mother would be mortified, and that would be worse than—” She caught herself, frowned into her wine, started to set it aside. He moved smoothly, adding more to her glass.

“My mother really loved to play the piano. That's why I picked it up at first. I wanted to share something with her specifically. I was so in love with her. We all were, but for me she was everything strong and right and kind about women. I wanted her to be proud of me. Whenever I saw that she was, whenever she told me she was, it was the most amazing feeling.”

“Some people strive all their lives for their parents' approval and never come close to gaining their pride.” There was something bitter and cold in her voice. She caught it herself and managed a weak laugh. “I'm drinking too much. It's going to my head.”

Deliberately he filled her glass again. “You're among friends.”

“Overindulging in alcohol—even lovely alcohol—is an abuse.”

“Overindulging on a regular basis is an abuse,” he corrected. “Ever been drunk, Sybill?”

“Of course not.”

“You're due.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Tell me about the first time you tasted champagne.”

“I don't remember. We were often served watered wine at dinner when we were children. It was important that we learn to appreciate the proper wines, how they were served, what to serve them with, the correct glass for red, the correct glass for white. I could easily have coordinated a formal dinner party for twenty when I was twelve.”

“Really?”

She laughed a little, let the wine froth in her head. “It's an important skill. Can you imagine the horror if one bungles the seating? Or serves an inferior wine with the main course? An evening in ruins, reputations in tatters. People expect a certain level of tedium at such affairs, but not a substandard Merlot.”

“You attended a lot of formal dinner parties?”

“Yes, indeed. First, several smaller, what you might term ‘practice' ones with intimates of my parents, so that I could be judged ready. When I was sixteen, my mother gave a large, important dinner for the French ambassador and his wife. That was my first official appearance. I was terrified.”

“Not enough practice?”

“Oh, I had plenty of practice, hours of instruction on protocol. I was just so painfully shy.”

“Were you?” he murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. Score one for Mother Crawford, he thought.

“So silly. But any time I had to face people that way, my stomach would seize up and my heart would pound so hard. I lived in terror that I would spill something, say something I shouldn't, or have nothing to say at all.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

“Tell them what?”

“That you were afraid?”

“Oh.” She waved her hand at that, as if it were the most absurd of questions, then picked up the bottle to pour more champagne. “What would be the point? I had to do what was expected of me.”

“Why? What would happen if you didn't? Would they beat you, lock you in a closet?”

“Of course not. They weren't monsters. They'd be disappointed, they'd disapprove. It was horrible when they looked at you that way—tight-lipped, cold-eyed—as if you were defective. It was easier just to get through it, and after a while, you learned how to deal with it.”

“Observe rather than participate,” he said quietly.

“I've made a good career out of it. Maybe I didn't fulfill my obligations by making an important marriage and giving a lifetime of those beastly dinner parties and raising a pair of well-behaved, properly bred children,” she said with rising heat. “But I made good use of my education and a good career, which I'm certainly more suited for than the other. I'm out of wine.”

“Let's slow down a little—”

“Why?” She laughed and plucked out the second bottle herself. “We're among friends. I'm getting drunk, and I think I like it.”

What the hell, Phillip thought and took the bottle from her to open it. He'd wanted to dig under that proper and polished surface of hers. Now that he was there, there was no point in backing off.

“But you were married once,” he reminded her.

“I told you it didn't count. It was
not
an important marriage. It was an impulse, a small and failed attempt at rebellion. I make a poor rebel. Mmm.” She swallowed champagne, gestured with her glass. “I was supposed to marry one of the sons of my father's associate from Britain.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, either. They were both quite acceptable. Distant
relations of the queen. My mother was quite determined to have her daughter associated by marriage with royalty. It would have been a triumph. Of course I was only fourteen, so she had plenty of time to work out the plan, the timing. I believe she'd decided I could become engaged, formally, to one or the other when I was eighteen. Marriage at twenty, first child at twenty-two. She had it all worked out.”

“But you didn't cooperate.”

“I didn't get the chance. I might very well have cooperated. I found it very difficult to oppose her.” She brooded over that for a moment, then washed it away with more champagne. “But Gloria seduced them both, at the same time, in the front parlor while my parents were attending the opera. I believe it was Vivaldi. Anyway . . .” She waved her hand again, drank again. “They came home, found this situation. There was quite a scene. I snuck downstairs and watched part of it. They were naked—not my parents.”

“Naturally.”

“High on something, too. There was a lot of shouting, threatening, pleading—this from the Oxford twins. Did I mention they were twins?”

“No, you didn't.”

“Identical. Blond, pale, lantern-jawed. Gloria didn't give two damns about them, of course. She did it, knowing they'd be caught, because my mother had chosen them for me. She hated me. Gloria, not my mother.” Her brow knit. “My mother didn't hate me.”

“What happened?”

“The twins were sent home in disgrace and Gloria was punished. Which led, inevitably, to her striking back by accusing my father's friend of seducing her, which led to another miserable scene and her finally running off. It was certainly less disruptive with her gone, but it gave my parents more time to concentrate on forging me. I used to wonder why they saw me more as creation than child. Why they couldn't love
me. But then . . .” She settled back again. “I'm not very lovable. No one's ever loved me.”

Aching for her, the woman and the child, he set his glass aside and framed her face gently with his hands. “You're wrong.”

“No, I'm not.” Her smile was soaked in wine. “I'm a professional. I know these things. My parents never loved me, certainly Gloria didn't. The husband, who didn't count, didn't love me. There wasn't even one of those kindly, good-hearted servants you read about in books, who held me against her soft, generous bosom and loved me. No one even bothered to pretend enough to use the words. You, on the other hand, are very lovable.” She ran her free hand up his chest. “I've never had sex when I've been drunk. What do you suppose it's like?”

“Sybill.” He caught her hand before she could distract him. “They underestimated and undervalued you. You shouldn't do the same to yourself.”

“Phillip.” She leaned forward, managed to nip his bottom lip between her teeth. “My life's been a predictable bore. Until you. The first time you kissed me, my mind just clicked off. No one ever did that to me before. And when you touch me . . .” Slowly she brought their joined hand to her breast. “My skin gets hot and my heart pounds, and my insides get loose and liquid. You climbed up the building.” Her mouth roamed over his jaw. “You brought me roses. You wanted me, didn't you?”

“Yes, I wanted you, but not just—”

“Take me.” She let her head fall back so she could look into those wonderful eyes. “I've never said that to a man before. Imagine that. Take me, Phillip.” And the words were part plea, part promise. “Just take me.”

The empty glass slipped out of her fingers as she wrapped her arms around him. Helpless to resist, he lowered her to the sofa. And took.

• • •

T
HE DULL ACHE
behind her eyes, the more lively one dancing inside her temples, was no more than she deserved, Sybill decided as she tried to drown both of them under the hot spray of the shower.

She would never, as God was her witness, overindulge in any form of alcohol again.

She only wished the aftermath of drink had resulted in memory loss as well, as a hangover. But she remembered, much too clearly, the way she'd prattled on about herself. The things she'd told Phillip. Humiliating, private things, things she rarely even told herself.

Now she had to face him. She had to face him and the fact that in one short weekend she had wept in his arms, then had given him both her body and her most carefully guarded secrets.

And she had to face the fact that she was hopelessly, and dangerously, in love with him.

Which was totally irrational, of course. The very fact that she believed she could have developed such strong feelings for him in such a short amount of time and association was precisely why those emotions were hopeless. And dangerous.

Obviously she wasn't thinking clearly. This barrage of feelings that had tumbled into her so quickly made it all but impossible to maintain an objective distance and analyze.

Once Seth was settled, once all the details were arranged, she would have to find that distance again. The simplest and most logical method was to begin with geographical distance and go back to New York.

Undoubtedly she would come to her senses once she'd picked up the threads of her own life again and slipped back into a comfortable, familiar routine.

However miserably dull that seemed just now.

She took the time to brush her wet hair back from her face, to carefully cream her skin, adjust the lapels of her robe. If she couldn't quite take full advantage of her breathing techniques to compose herself, it was hardly any wonder, what with the drag of the hangover.

But she stepped out of the bathroom with her features calmly arranged, then walked into the parlor, where Phillip was just pouring coffee from the room service tray.

“I thought you could use this.”

“Yes, thank you.” She carefully censored her gaze to avoid the empty champagne bottle and the scatter of clothing that she'd been too drunk to pick up the night before.

“Did you take any aspirin?”

“Yes. I'll be fine.” She said it stiffly, accepted the cup of coffee and sat with the desperate care of an invalid. She knew she was pale, hollow-eyed. She'd gotten a good look at herself in the steamy mirror.