Iris Johansen (7 page)

“Sand castle?” he said blankly, then he suddenly threw back his head and laughed aloud. Several guests stopped their casual chatter to gaze at him in discreet amazement, but he ignored them with typical arrogance. “You were building sand castles on the beach all afternoon?”

“Not all afternoon,” she said dreamily. “Part of the time I was walking on the beach and playing in the surf. I had a wonderful time.”

“I can see that you did,” he said, his gaze on her glowing face, and there was again that odd gentleness in their darkness. “I wish that I could have been there to watch you.” They had reached the small cluster of guests that had been Santine’s objective, and he pulled his gaze from her with obvious reluctance. Then, as if by magic, that bewildering gentleness was gone, replaced by his usual mockery as he smoothly performed the introductions.

There were only five people in the small group in the corner, but from the careless attentiveness of Santine’s demeanor she guessed they were the primary players in Santine’s game that evening. The only one she had met previously was Pat Dawson, who was looking surprisingly sophisticated in his tuxedo. He acknowledged her murmured greeting with a warm smile and a glint of admiration in his eyes.

The other members of the group were two couples Santine introduced as Harry and Sylvia Waterman and James and Elizabeth Sanders. All four were apparently in their early fifties, with the sleek, expensive patina that the rest of the assemblage possessed. She immediately recognized Sylvia Waterman’s high, shrill voice as the one that had made her cringe when she’d entered the room, and the woman’s shallow, flighty conversation matched her piercing voice precisely.

They were all carefully courteous to her as she stood there under the subtle cloak of protection that Santine draped about her, but she was much relieved when he nodded imperiously to Dawson and said smoothly, “Pat, why don’t you take Janna to the bar and get her a drink? We don’t want to bore her with our dull business affairs.” He smiled charmingly at the other women in the group. “I’d tell you to escort these other lovely ladies, too, but I may need them to use their charms on their husbands in my behalf.”

“Delighted,” Dawson said promptly, coming forward eagerly to take Janna’s arm. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all evening. Come along, Miss Cannon; let’s see how many drinks I can ply you with before dinner. I always look better to women through an alcoholic haze.”

“One drink,” Santine ordered tersely. “Miss Cannon didn’t eat any lunch.” He turned back to his business associates with that charming, sociable smile Janna found so incongruous with what she now knew of his character.

There was a quizzical grin on Dawson’s face as he propelled her in the general direction of the bar. “It seems I made a slight error in judgment,” he murmured. “That look Mr. Santine gave me nearly took the top of my head off.” He darted her a speculative glance. “How the hell did you manage to rouse the protective instinct in my employer’s savage breast? I’ve never seen him display that particular emotion for anyone before.”

Janna shook her head ruefully. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said dryly. “I scarcely know the man, and I’m quite sure protectiveness isn’t a quality he’d feel toward me if I’d known him for a decade.”

“I admit that it’s unusual,” he drawled. “But then, so is giving a two-million-dollar land grant to a pretty trespasser he’d never seen before.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “You wouldn’t like to enlighten me as to what went on in the library after Santine sent me away, would you?”

She shook her head firmly.

“I didn’t think so.” He sighed resignedly. “It appears that my curiosity is going to go unsatisfied. I understand we’re going to have the pleasure of your company for a time.”

“For a time,” she replied reservedly, and heard Dawson’s amused chuckle.

“Okay, I can take a hint,” he said lightly, his blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll concede that discussion of anything
pertaining to your rather bizarre arrival last night is taboo. I’ll expect a return favor of you, however.”

“Favor?” she asked warily, her eyes on his face.

He nodded with a grimace. “I’m not looking forward to being marooned down here for two months with only Santine for companionship. I was hoping you’d take pity on my solitary state occasionally. Purely platonic, of course. I’m not about to step on Santine’s toes, whatever your relationship with him.”

She studied him soberly and then smiled warmly into his wholesome, friendly face. “I’d like that,” she said softly. “I have a feeling I may need a friend myself in the coming weeks.”

“Good,” Dawson said briskly. “Now, what can I get you to drink to fill that meager ration Santine has allowed you?”

“Just some tomato juice,” Janna said quietly. “I don’t drink.”

Dawson gave her a surprised glance before he shrugged. “Whatever you say,” he said casually. “I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, he was swiftly back at her side, with a frosty goblet containing the innocuous beverage, which he handed her with a flourish. Taking a swallow of his own whiskey and looking across the room at the little coterie surrounding Santine, he observed idly, “It looks like the boss is operating on all cylinders tonight. I’ll wager he’ll have Waterman eating out of his hand by the end of the evening.”

“Why should he want to do that?” Janna asked curiously, sipping her tomato juice slowly. “I thought Mr. Santine could pretty well call the shots in any business transaction he entered into.”

“He can,” Dawson agreed coolly. “But forcible takeovers can be expensive, and he wants Silverline Computers rather badly. If he can persuade Waterman and Sanders to vote their sizable blocks of stock in his favor, the take-over will be almost bloodless.”

“And if not?” Janna asked slowly, her eyes on Santine’s enigmatic face as he listened attentively to something Sanders was explaining.

“Then he’ll get it anyway,” Dawson said casually. “It will just take longer.” His lips curled sardonically. “And I guarantee that it won’t be bloodless if they force him to go to the extra trouble.”

At that moment Stokley appeared at the arched doorway and announced with regal dignity that dinner was served. Dawson offered Janna his arm with a mocking panache. “My lady,” he drawled gallantly. “I assume I’m to take you in to dinner, since Santine hasn’t reclaimed you.”

She smiled as she slipped her arm through his, and they drifted slowly toward the door. As they passed the expressionless Stokley still standing at military attention, she obeyed a sudden impulse and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I made it, Stokley,” she murmured in an undertone as she passed him on Dawson’s arm.

“I see that you did, Miss Cannon,” he replied softly, his lips barely moving. “May I say that you also look charming?”

“You may,” she said impishly, raising her head regally. She heard a queer choked sound emit from Stokley’s throat as she passed out of earshot.

Dawson was looking at her, his brow creased in perplexity. “What was that all about?” he demanded as they passed into the dining room at the far end of the foyer.

“Nothing,” Janna answered demurely, a tiny smile hovering on her lips. “Nothing at all.”

The rest of the evening wasn’t nearly as tedious as she’d feared, thanks to Pat Dawson’s good-humored charm and assiduous attentions. He kept her constantly laughing at his wry, slightly acerbic comments on their fellow guests both during dinner and later, when they were served coffee in the living room. The evening passed with such amazing swiftness
that, in what seemed a short time later, Janna was astonished to see Santine bidding farewell to a number of guests.

Dawson also noticed the flurry and stood up with obvious reluctance, holding his hand out to pull Janna to her feet. “I think we’d better wander over and do our social duty,” he said with a grimace. “I see Waterman and Sanders are about ready to leave. As I did the preliminary groundwork on the merger, I’ll be expected to keep up a cordial facade until we have their proxies. I think I may catch hell from Santine anyway, for neglecting them. I noticed he was casting some distinctly icy glances at us this evening.”

Janna frowned in puzzlement. “Are you sure?” she asked. “He always seemed to be very much involved whenever I saw him tonight.”

“I’m sure,” he said wryly. “I’ve made quite a study of Rafe Santine’s temperament over the years, and I assure you that he wasn’t pleased with me.” They had reached the perimeter of the group at the door now, and Pat painted a bright, cordial smile on his face that looked surprisingly sincere.

Stokley and two of the maids were busy fetching the coats and evening wraps from the guest closets in the foyer, and she exchanged a faint smile with Stokley before Dawson placed a hand on her arm and nudged her gently to where Santine was standing, conversing with the Watermans and the Sanders. Santine looked up as they approached, and Janna knew immediately that Pat was right. Something had put him in a ferocious temper.

“Janna, my dear,” he greeted her silkily, reaching out to pluck her from Dawson’s hold, his arm sliding around her waist in swift possession. “We thought you’d forgotten us in your absorption with my fascinating assistant, here.” His hand tightened almost painfully on her slim waist. “Now you only have time to say good night to our guests.”

Our
guests? Janna darted him an incredulous glance. He was behaving as if she were a hostess who had been derelict in her duties, when only this morning he’d assured her she need not even talk to his precious dinner guests if she didn’t choose to do so. The man changed the rules from moment to moment.

She turned to Harry Waterman, who was closest to her, and offered her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Waterman,” she said quietly. “I hope that I see you again soon.”

The small rotund man pumped her hand heartily, his fleshy jowls trembling. “I’m sure you will, Miss Cannon,” he beamed. “Rafe, here, tells me you’re going to be staying on to finalize the details on some charity project he’s interested in. We’re bound to run into each other in the next few weeks.”

So Pat had been right, Janna thought. Waterman had obviously been persuaded to go along with Santine’s cause in the course of the evening. She withdrew her hand and was about to turn to Sanders when she heard Dawson give a low whistle. “Great heavens, that’s a gorgeous coat, Sylvia,” he said admiringly. “It’s absolutely stunning against the darkness of your hair.”

Janna glanced automatically in Sylvia Waterman’s direction, and her breath caught in her throat. The soft, lustrous full-length fur coat did flatter the woman’s elaborately coiffed black hair, she thought numbly. The black stripes on the orange-gold background were almost the exactly same shade.

“Do you really think so, Pat?” Sylvia Waterman gushed as she put her arms in the fur coat, which Stokley was holding, and shrugged into it. “I’ve wanted a tiger-skin coat for simply ages, but it’s extremely hard to get hold of a really nice one.” Her hand ran caressingly along the silky fur of the front lapels, her long, beautifully manicured nails bright red against the golden pelt. Blood red. “It’s so much
more unique than mink or sable, don’t you think?” She tucked one arm in her husband’s and fluttered her eyelashes coyly at him. “Harry bought it for me in India last year, when we were on our round-the-world tour. It’s really the only decent place to obtain decent tiger skins these days. It took Harry almost a week to locate someone who could get the quantity of skins needed for a full-length coat.” She squeezed his arm affectionately. “But when Harry wants something, there’s no standing in his way.”

Waterman nodded with smug satisfaction. “You’ve just got to have the contacts and pay the price.”

Janna felt as if she were going to be sick. Her entire body was cold and clammy, as if it were encased in ice. She couldn’t take her eyes from Sylvia Waterman’s hand that was still clutching the fur. Such a dainty hand to be so horribly, selfishly greedy. “Where did you get it?” she choked hoarsely, her throat dry and tight. “Where did you get the skins?”

Sylvia Waterman’s pale blue eyes widened in surprise as she glanced over at Janna. “Why, I told you, dear,” she said patiently. “Harry bought it for me in India. Where did that funny little man have to send to get the furs, Harry?”

“Nepal,” he replied casually, patting her hand absently. “And we had to wait damn near two weeks to get them. Those Indians have no sense of the value of time.”

“Nepal,” Janna repeated faintly, and she could feel the waves of nausea wash through her. “Nepal.”

“Are you all right, Janna?” Santine asked, frowning, his eyes on her dazed face. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

From far away she could see them all staring at her with varying degrees of puzzlement, as if from the opposite end of a tunnel. “Please excuse me,” she muttered numbly. “I’m not feeling very well.” Then she was hurrying away from them, her mind
blank, only her instincts carrying her toward the courtyard door.

“Janna!”

She heard Santine’s imperious shout, but it failed to pierce the ice that was wrapping her in its comforting embrace. She was in the courtyard, running across it, the cool, crisp autumn air striking sharply against her hot cheeks. Strange they should be hot, when the rest of her felt so cold.

Then she was in the woods, running blindly through the shrubbery. She could feel the branches and bushes tearing at her as she raced mindlessly through the estate grounds. She had no idea of destination, yet she wasn’t really surprised when she broke free of the woods and found herself on the top of the cliff. The outline of the gazebo was a graceful welcoming sight against the star-flung darkness of the horizon. It looked oddly comforting, almost homelike, to Janna in that moment of desolation, and she crept within its shelter like a wounded animal seeking a cave to lick its wounds.

Janna curled on the cushioned gazebo seat, tucking her feet beneath her and leaning on the redwood railing, while she stared sightlessly into the moonlit darkness. The ice was beginning to melt now, as she’d feared it would, and the pain was a throbbing ache in her breast. She could feel the silent tears running helplessly down her cheeks, but she made no attempt to stop them. Someone should cry, damn it. Someone should care.