Land's End (2 page)

Sarah had a sudden vivid image of a wolf, eyes gleaming, closing on its prey. People said Trent Donner never forgot and never forgave. She could believe it.

“No.” Stubbornness seemed her only refuge against his intensity. “Miles wouldn't betray us, betray you, that way.”

Something bleak closed over Trent's anger, and he pushed her hands away as if he couldn't stand to touch her anymore. “If you think that, you're even more naive than I thought you were. Anyone is capable of betrayal.
Anyone
.”

Sarah rubbed her arms, chilled in spite of the sunlight slanting through the open windows. She hadn't prepared enough, obviously, for Trent's reaction to what she intended to do. Maybe because she tried so hard not to think of him at all.

“Not Miles,” she insisted. “I don't mean to hurt you, or Melissa. But I'm here, and I intend to stay until I find out the truth.”

His dark, winged eyebrows lifted slightly. “And if I tell you you're not welcome here?”

“Then I'd say that you don't own St. James Island. Not all of it, anyway.”

Something, perhaps faint, bitter amusement, crossed Trent's face. He moved toward the door. “You may be surprised.”

“You can't force me to leave.”

Trent pulled the door open, then paused, a dark silhouette against the rectangle of sunlight. “Goodbye, Sarah. I don't expect I'll see you again.”

 

Trent hadn't taken more than a few steps from Sarah's room when he spotted Ed Farrell lounging on the patio, probably within earshot of the open windows. Plant security wouldn't have sent Farrell to serve as Trent's driver-cum-bodyguard unless he'd passed all their stringent tests, but the man still annoyed him. Farrell's curiosity grated on Trent's nerves in much the same way his harsh New Jersey accent grated on his ears.

“Bring the car around. I'm going home.”

“Yes, suh.”

One of Farrell's more annoying habits was this attempt to assume a Southern drawl. Maybe he thought the drawl, the paunch and the sunglasses made him into the media version of a redneck cop. It didn't.

“And in future, stay with the car unless I tell you otherwise.”

Farrell's stolid face showed no emotion except mild stubbornness. “It's my job to protect you.”

“I'm in no danger from Dr. Wainwright.”

No physical danger, anyway. He stalked toward the car, ignoring Farrell's quick dance to get there first and open the door.

Small, slender, blond, Sarah looked as fragile as a piece of fine china. When he'd grasped her wrists, his fingers had entirely encircled them—like holding a child's small bones within his grasp.

He slid into the car. Nothing else about her was childlike, however. Not the warm, peaches-and-cream glow of her skin. Or that steel structure she called backbone.

Sarah Wainwright reminded him of someone, and for a moment he couldn't think who. Not Lynette. That was certain. His hand tightened into a fist, and he deliberately relaxed it. Lynette had been all fireworks and talent and temperament.

Contained, self-possessed Sarah, with her single-minded devotion to medicine, was not remotely like Lynette. He'd been alternately annoyed and amused by Sarah once.

His head moved restlessly against smooth gray leather as the car took the winding, narrow road to Land's End. Amused. Annoyed.
Attracted
. The word gave a bitter edge to his thoughts. He'd never have acted on that feeling, of course. Unlike Lynette.

He'd handled the news of Sarah's presence badly. If he
hadn't already been beat from three days' worth of meetings in San Francisco followed by the red-eye back to Savannah, he might have coped more rationally. He'd called the house to check his messages, intercepted the news that she was at the inn and barged in without thinking.

Once he was in the room with her, it was too late to think. The complex feelings she sparked in him hadn't left space for thought. It hadn't seemed the time for civilized niceties, but a few of those might have gotten him further.

Or maybe he shouldn't have gone near Sarah at all. He could have let Derek handle the situation. His half brother's easy charm had smoothed difficult patches more than once.

The car rolled past the security gate, one of those unfortunate necessities of life for corporate heads. He might be willing to take chances with himself, but he wouldn't take chances with Melissa.

His heart clenched at the thought of his daughter. Sarah posed no physical danger, but her very presence on the island was still a threat. A threat that would have to be dealt with.

He got out of the car onto the shell-encrusted drive, suddenly realizing who Sarah reminded him of. His grandmother. Just as tiny, just as iron-willed, she'd immigrated from Ireland, headed for New York and ended up, most improbably, the wife of a dirt-poor shrimper on the Georgia sea islands.

Sarah, with generations of New England upper-crust breeding behind her, probably wouldn't appreciate the comparison. But Mary Elizabeth O'Neill Donner had had backbone, too. Once she'd made up her mind to do something, she never turned back.

Trent paused for a moment on the veranda, letting the breeze that accompanied the rising tide cool his face. His pulse slowed in rhythm with the roll of the breakers and the undulating wave of the sea oats on the dunes.

The house he'd worked with the architect to design spread accommodatingly on a narrow strip of land between ocean and salt marsh, its pale yellow, shallow wings built in true Low Country style to catch every breeze. He'd been happy here once. Maybe he could be again.

But not until he got rid of Sarah Wainwright.

Geneva Robinson waited in the foyer, ready to take his briefcase and hand him an iced glass of her raspberry tea.

“Did you have a good trip this time?” The housekeeper's voice retained the melodic, singsong cadence of Gullah, the language born on the vast rice plantations that once covered the Low Country.

“So-so.” Trent shrugged out of his jacket, stretching. He'd probably sleep better tonight if he took one of the boats out. Get the smell of cities and airplanes out of his lungs and replace it with the lush, fecund aroma of the salt marsh. “Is my brother here?”

Geneva shook her head. “Mr. Derek hasn't come in yet.”

She called him Trent when they were alone, but his brother was always Mr. Derek. He'd never known why. “What about Melissa?”

“In her room.” Geneva's smile faltered, and he saw the worry in her eyes. “That child's hardly been out of her room since you left. I tried to get her to call her friends, but she wouldn't.”

The burden of Melissa's unhappiness settled over his shoulders, weighing him down like a hot, humid Georgia day. “I'll see what I can do.” They both knew he could probably do very little, but he had to try. Had to pretend his being here might make a difference.

He took the wide, shallow staircase two steps at a time. Music boomed from behind the closed door of Melissa's room, rattling the panels. Trent grimaced. If he could under
stand the words, he'd probably be appalled. He tapped twice, then opened the door. “Melissa?”

His daughter shot bolt upright on the bed, swinging a startled, angry face toward him. “Can't you knock?”

If he took issue with every rude thing she said these days, they'd never talk at all. “I did.” He felt as if he mouthed the words. He gestured toward the speakers. “Will you turn that down, please?”

Melissa snapped the switch and silence fell. Trent's eardrums still throbbed. Now was probably not the time to discuss hearing loss.

“What have you been up to while I was gone?” He hated his inability to carry on a simple conversation with this child he loved and didn't understand.

“Nothing.” Melissa crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “School's out. You're not supposed to have to do stuff when you're on vacation.”

“See any of your friends lately?” Every interaction with Melissa turned into a game of Twenty Questions.

She shrugged, a curtain of brown hair swinging forward to hide her face. It was becoming a characteristic posture. “No.”

“Wouldn't you like to invite some of the girls from school over?” He hated the desperate note in his voice.

“I just want to be by myself. Okay?” She did look up then, hazel eyes darkening. She glared pointedly at the door.

He valued privacy himself too highly to argue. “No, I guess not.” He said it quietly, because the only other choice was to shout, and shouting just drove Melissa deeper into the shell she'd constructed around herself, like a conch hiding in its beautiful labyrinth. “I'll see you at dinner.”

He closed the door and stood for a moment, hand resting on its panel as lightly as if he touched his daughter. He'd like
to believe this was normal behavior for a twelve-year-old, but he couldn't. How much damage had they done, he and Lynette, to the child they'd created? How much more waited for her?

He straightened, hand dropping from the door. Sarah Wainwright might not intend harm to Melissa, but that didn't mean she wouldn't cause it. And that was something he intended to prevent. No matter what he had to do.

 

Sarah lay across the bed, staring at the shadows cast by the lazy revolving of the ceiling fan. Images flickered in the shadows. Miles's face, glowing with excitement when he told her about the offer to become second in command of Donner's conglomerate of software and engineering companies.

“I owe it all to you, Sarah. If you hadn't pushed me to blow the whistle on the scam in the Atlanta office, Donner would never even have remembered my name.”

She'd been surprised that she'd had to push. Even if the rot at Donner Enterprises had gone all the way to Donner himself, exposing it had been the right thing to do.

Miles had seen that, once she pointed it out. Donner hadn't been involved, and his appreciation of Miles's integrity had taken a tangible form.

Brilliant, creative, iconoclastic
…Every word applied to Trent Donner was a superlative. Trent had risen from poverty to parlay a shoestring operation into a multimillion-dollar empire. Miles's appointment as his assistant had been a plum, but it had meant a move to the isolated, moneyed environs of St. James. Trent preferred to run his empire from the island, flying—as need took him—to Atlanta or Singapore. His assistant had to be on call twenty-four hours a day.

Of course she'd been happy for Miles, but moving meant
leaving behind her position at the pediatric clinic in Atlanta. Where was she going to practice medicine on St. James?

That had worked out, after a fashion. She'd found an emergency room position at a hospital in Savannah, the closest city. It was only part-time, but before she had time to grow restless, she'd discovered another opportunity, right on St. James. The island had been without a clinic of its own.

The wealthy, in their private compounds, didn't need one, but the several hundred native sea islanders, clinging to their Gullah culture while coping with the influx of outsiders, did. She'd never been able to see a problem without feeling it her duty to solve it.

Trent had been the obvious choice to put money behind her idea. She'd begun to enjoy her clashes with him on the subject, and he'd finally donated the building so they could start the clinic. And then after six short months, their world exploded.

Trent's embittered face formed against the shadows. Did the pain show as clearly on her face as it did on his? A man who hated to show his feelings, he must despise every line, resent it every time he looked into a mirror.

Unbidden, another image of Trent's face sprang into her mind. His eyes glowing with laughter, then surprised by attraction, silhouetted against the dark green shadows of a garden. They'd sensed the feeling at the same moment, recognized it in each other. And turned away, as guilty as if they'd acted on the impulse.

No. Sarah slammed the door of her mind on that memory. She had to concentrate on the mission that had brought her here.

The truth about Miles and Lynette is buried on St. James, Father. You've brought me back, and I won't leave until I find it.

S
arah paused in the entrance to the inn's dining room. After a quick, quiet meal, she'd tumble into bed. Tomorrow she'd figure out what her first step had to be, now that Trent had made it clear she could expect nothing from him. Thank goodness the dining room, like the lobby earlier, was nearly deserted.

Not quite. She saw the couple at the table by the window, heart sinking. What perverse luck had led her into a meeting with Trent's closest neighbors? It was too late to retreat. Jonathan Lee was already on his feet and coming toward her.

“Sarah Wainwright! We didn't know you were back on the island. It's good to see you, honey.” Jonathan took her hands and kissed her cheek.

Was it good to see her? She had no idea where the Lees stood in relation to respecting Trent's wishes that she leave.

“I just arrived. It's good to see you, too. And Adriana.” She smiled at Jonathan's wife, who hadn't left her chair.

Jonathan drew back and studied her, his round, merry face, like a sophisticated faun's, growing solemn. “It doesn't look as if being back agrees with you.”

Sarah shrugged, not sure how much his perceptive, some
times malicious, black eyes picked up. “Mixed feelings, I suppose. Please greet Adriana for me.”

She tried to disengage herself, but Jonathan had a firm grip on her hand. “Tell her yourself. Have dinner with us.”

If she tried to make polite conversation, she'd probably fall asleep in her dinner plate. “Another time.”

Jonathan shook his head. “You can't eat alone your first night back. Besides, Adriana's dying to talk with you.”

Sarah was swept to their table on the tide of that Southern charm Jonathan dispensed with such enthusiasm. He played the role of Southern gentleman with so much flair, one could never quite tell if it was real or exaggerated.

The waiter produced another chair, and she ordered the first special he mentioned, trying to organize her thoughts. This meeting had fallen into her lap. If anyone knew what had gone on with Trent after she'd left the island, the Lees did. She'd better shake off her fatigue and use this opportunity.

She glanced up to find herself the target of two pairs of eyes, Jonathan's brightly curious, Adriana's bored. At least she supposed it was boredom. Adriana was always perfectly made-up, her dark hair swept back from her strong-featured face, her clothing a perfect example of retrained elegance.

Jonathan leaned toward her, pixie face warm. He must be a good ten years older than Trent, but he had a perennially youthful air. His interest in everything about everyone balanced Adriana's coolness.

“Has it been a bad year?” He grimaced. “Of course it has. Scratch that question, sugar. Tell us what you've been doing.”

An account of her recent life shouldn't have lasted through the serving of the she-crab soup, but Jonathan managed to spin it out through the main course with questions and comments.

Sarah was still wondering how she could tactfully introduce the subject she wanted when the talk turned to island society, and Jonathan said Lynette's name at last.

“Everyone misses Lynette.” Adriana's spoon chinked against the china cup. Candlelight cast shadows across her face. “I'm not sure I even want to have our party this year.”

“Of course we will.” Was that an edge in Jonathan's voice? His black eyes bored into his wife, and Sarah had a sense of meaning under the words. “Our party always kicks off the summer. Everyone will be disappointed if we cancel.”

“Not everyone.” Adriana toyed with her spoon. “Trent's turned into such a recluse, he probably won't come anyway.”

“A recluse?” Adriana's comment seemed to bring Trent's frowning presence to the table.

Jonathan's eyes darkened. “I wouldn't call it that. After what happened, naturally he didn't go out much.”

“I hear he's neglecting the business.” Adriana's brows lifted. “Escaping on his boat and letting his brother run things.”

“I'm sure Derek's not taking on anything important,” Jonathan said. “He's not a heavyweight at business.”

Adriana shrugged, dismissing Trent's brother. “The way Trent's acting, anyone would think he and Lynette had been devoted to each other, instead of fighting all the time.”

“I hadn't realized they were having problems.” She'd seldom seen Trent and Lynette, but she'd been busy with her work. Or maybe she hadn't cared enough.

“I don't suppose you knew Lynette well.” Adriana's tone implied that Lynette would hardly have chosen her for a friend.

“No, I didn't. But obviously people think my husband did.” Sarah put the blunt statement out and waited for a response.

Jonathan shook his head, looking shocked at her frankness. “I'm sure no one believes—”

“Don't be stupid, Jonathan.” Adriana sounded scornful. “That's what everyone thinks. What other explanation is there?”

Adriana didn't care whether she hurt your feelings, but she was privy to gossip that Sarah would never hear. Gossip that she now
needed
to hear if she wanted to uncover the truth.

“Did people suspect they were involved before the accident, or just afterward?” She ignored the pain.

“Well, I heard—”

Jonathan's hand closed over his wife's. “Please, Adriana. Let's not repeat gossip. It can only be hurtful.”

“I'd rather hear it than wonder what people are saying behind my back.”

He shook his head, and under the sympathy in his face she saw determination. Jonathan didn't want her to hear the talk. Was his concern based on his ideas of what constituted polite conversation, or was there really something out there he thought too painful for her to hear?

“Both you and Trent lost a great deal.” He patted her hand sympathetically. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

She didn't agree, but she subsided. She'd probably pushed as much as she could for the moment.

At least she'd learned something. Jonathan wouldn't talk, but Adriana would. She had to find a way of seeing her alone.

She slid her chair back. “Please excuse me. I'm afraid I'm exhausted from the trip. Maybe we can get together again soon.” She stood, looking at Adriana as she said the words, and thought she saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

“Oh, honey, of course.” Jonathan got up. “Don't you forget now, we're here if you need anything.”

Anything but the truth. Well, she could get around that. Trent might think he could stop her, but people would talk. No matter how painful, that was better than silence.

She walked into the lobby feeling more hopeful than she had an hour earlier. But it didn't last. The lobby now held something that hadn't been there before—her luggage stood forlornly against the desk.

The manager wore an expression of mixed embarrassment and determination. “I'm sorry, Dr. Wainwright. I'm afraid we have to ask you to vacate your room.”

Sarah stared at him, her mind as blank as she knew her face must be. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He shuffled a sheaf of computer printouts on the desktop. “This is very embarrassing.” He looked everywhere but at her. “The entire inn is booked for a business meeting.”

Cold rage stiffened her spine. “Let me guess. This business meeting…It wouldn't be Donner Enterprises, would it?”

“There'll be no charge for the room, of course, or for your dinner.” He attempted a smile, fastening his gaze somewhere over her head. “Maybe you'll come back another time.”

“And if I did? Would you find the inn full again?”

For a moment his eyes met hers and he was a human being, instead of Trent Donner's tool. “I'm sorry.” He spread his hands out helplessly. “There's nothing I can do.”

“Sarah?”

She turned, realizing that Jonathan and Adriana had come out of the dining room. Jonathan stared at her bags.

“You're not leaving already, are you? You just got here.”

“Not willingly. The manager has suddenly discovered that all the rooms have been booked by Trent's company. In other words, Trent is having me evicted.”

She probably shouldn't be so blunt. They were Trent's friends. She couldn't expect them to side with her.

Jonathan turned on the manager. “Dunphries, you can't ask Dr. Wainwright to leave at this hour of the night.”

The man reddened. “I don't have a choice.”

“You mean you're afraid to make one.” Jonathan's black eyes snapped. “Donner provides a lot of your business.”

“It's not his fault.” She remembered Trent's stinging accusation. “I was naive not to expect it. I'll go elsewhere.”

The manager cleared his throat. “I understand Mr. Donner booked all the rooms on the island for this business meeting.”

She'd underestimated Trent. She wouldn't make that mistake again. “It looks as if I'll be sleeping on the beach tonight.”

“Don't be silly.” Adriana's entry into the conversation startled Sarah. “You can stay in our guesthouse.”

Sarah could only hope her mouth didn't gape. Adriana had barely spoken two sentences to her in the time she'd been on the island. Why on earth was she extending an invitation now?

Jonathan smiled. “Of course. That's the perfect solution.” He reached for Sarah's bags. “Come on. You're coming home with us.”

“Trent won't be very happy with you.”

“It won't hurt Trent not to get his own way for once.” Jonathan picked up her bags. “Our car's out in the lot.”

She'd better stop protesting, or they might change their minds. “I have my car, so I'll follow you.”

The manager sprang to open the lobby door for them, probably with a sigh of relief. She'd blame him, but she knew the power Trent wielded here. He was the one who deserved her anger, not people who depended on him for their livelihoods.

Adriana fell into step with Sarah. “Don't worry about our relationship with Trent.” Her voice was cool and light, almost amused. “Your staying with us won't make it any worse.”

That seemed fairly ambiguous. What was Adriana thinking? “It's very kind of you.”

“Not at all.” That definitely was amusement in her tone. “Your presence might make life more…interesting.”

Interesting.

She weighed Adriana's words later as she followed their car down the black, winding road. Streetlights were nonexistent on the island, and street signs rare. You either knew where you were going at night, or you got lost, just as she felt lost in the tangle of ambiguities and hidden meanings in nearly everything that had been said tonight.

What was Adriana up to? She hadn't invited Sarah to stay based on her ideas of Southern hospitality. Still, staying with them should open some doors to her. Whatever Adriana's motives, she had to be grateful for that.

 

He ought to feel pleased. The problem presented by Sarah Wainwright had been taken care of.

Trent leaned back in his leather desk chair, looking over the computer to the wide windows. A silvery moon rode low on the ocean, sending a path of light toward the shore.

He didn't feel anything of the kind. He couldn't rejoice that Sarah was ending an exhausting day by driving off the island to the nearest motel. She'd have to go all the way to the interstate to find one that wasn't inexplicably full.

No, he wasn't pleased, but he was satisfied. He'd done what he had to do. Some would say he'd been ruthless, but that was because he did what other people only thought about. Sarah Wainwright would not open up the busy lines of gossip again.

In the long run, he'd done her a favor. She'd have found more grief if she'd stayed here.

Faint music filtered through the study door he'd left ajar. Derek must be playing the piano in the living room, since Melissa had already gone up to her room. He wasn't sure whether to be glad or not that Derek was at his suite of rooms here instead of at his waterfront apartment in Savannah.

Trent's first instinct, after Lynette's death, had been to have that grand piano of hers chopped into firewood. He hadn't, of course. Melissa had her mother's talent, and it wouldn't be fair to deprive her of that solace.

Besides, he hadn't wanted to do anything that might detract from the explanation he'd given for Lynette's and Miles's presence at the cottage together. He'd asked them to check out the cottage for possible expansion. That was what he'd told the police, the press, anyone else who dared ask. The police were satisfied that it was an unfortunate accident with the gas heater and only too glad to have a rational explanation for their presence. End of story.

Maybe people didn't really believe that story, but they pretended they did. No one would dare suggest anything else in his hearing, or in Melissa's. Or would they? He'd like to believe he'd protected his child from the speculation, but he'd never be sure.