Night Whispers (14 page)

"a hopeless Pollyanna," and "the quintessential dumb blonde."

"I just know I'm going to hate that man." Drawing a long, calming breath, Sloan said, "What does his opinion of my mother have to do with what he'll believe about me?"

Paul gave her a wry smile. "You look like her."

"I don't think so."

"Well, you do," he said flatly. "Reynolds will think so, too, and he'll naturally assume you are as"—he paused to choose the least offensive of the words Reynolds had used to describe Sloan's mother—"as gullible as she was."

Sloan had the alarming impression that he'd already arrived at some decision about all this, but that he was easing her toward it because she wasn't going to like it.

"I gather you'd like me to reinforce his misconception about my mother's and my intellect, is that right?"

"If you can."

"And since you knew I was probably going to hate this idea, you decided to save it until we were practically in his driveway."

"Exactly," he said unashamedly.

Sloan leaned her head against the headrest, closed her eyes, and indulged in a rare moment of self-pity. "Oh, great. This is just great."

"Look, Sloan, you've come here to do a job, not make Reynolds admire you, right?"

Sloan swallowed. "Right," she sighed, but mentally she cringed as the next two weeks unfolded in her imagination.

He flipped on his turn signal as they approached a palatial Mediterranean-style villa with a flagstone driveway and huge iron gates blocking the entry at the street.

"One last thing before we go in there. I know it's going to be hard, but you
must
hide your hostility from Reynolds. He's no fool, and he has to believe you want a reconciliation. Can you hide your feelings about him?"

Sloan nodded. "I've been practicing."

"How do you practice a thing like that?" he asked dryly as he turned into the driveway.

"I stand in front of the mirror and think about something awful he's done; then I practice smiling until I actually look happy about it."

Paul laughed aloud and covered her hand in a brief, encouraging squeeze; then he pulled up to the gates. He lowered his side window and reached out to press a button on a brass box mounted on a pedestal beside the car door; then he paused and looked at Sloan. "Smile for the camera," he instructed with a meaningful nod toward the tiny, glass-covered hole in the metal box on the pedestal.

He pressed the button on the box.

"Yes?" a male voice spoke.

"Sloan Reynolds and Paul Richardson," he said.

The gates parted in the center and swung open.

«
^
»

W
henever Sloan had imagined this moment, she'd pictured her father opening the door and greeting her personally, so now she braced herself to look pleasant but noncommittal. Her effort was successful but entirely wasted on the tall, fair-haired butler who actually opened the door and who managed to seem almost as pleasant and even more noncommittal than she. "Good afternoon, Miss Reynolds. Good afternoon, Mr. Richardson," he intoned in a deep voice that bore faint traces of a Nordic accent. "The family is expecting you. Please follow me."

He led them down a wide, tiled hallway with archways on both sides that opened into numerous spacious rooms, all of them furnished in European antiques. At the end of the hall, a door opened suddenly, and Sloan had her first look at her father as he strode forward to greet her himself. Since he'd had a heart attack, and since he'd been so anxious for an opportunity to make amends, she naturally expected him to appear remorseful and haggard, but the man striding toward her was lithe, tanned, and very handsome. "Sloan!" he said, stopping in front of her and holding out his hand.

Sloan automatically held out her hand for what she presumed would be a handshake, but he covered her hand with both of his and kept it. "My God, you look so much like your mother that it's almost eerie," he said with a warm smile; then he added with simple sincerity, "Thank you for coming."

Sloan's entire body was shaking with nervous tension, but somehow her voice sounded steady and normal. "This is my friend, Paul Richardson."

The two men shook hands; then Carter's gaze returned to her. "For some reason," he admitted ruefully, "I assumed the friend you were bringing with you was female. Nordstrom had two guest rooms made ready, but—"

"That will be fine," Sloan said swiftly.

His smile warmed even more, and Sloan had the impression that her father was pleased that she wasn't so brazen that she wished to share a bedroom in his home with her "boyfriend." She wasn't quite certain how he managed to communicate that to her, and she had to remind herself that she didn't care what he thought. "Nordstrom will take care of your luggage," he said. "Now, come along with me. Your sister and your great-grandmother are in the solarium."

As they started forward, a slender man of about thirty-five with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses walked out of a room near the main staircase carrying a sheaf of papers that he was reading. Carter stopped him and introduced him to Sloan and Paul as Gary Dishler. "Gary is my assistant," Carter explained. "Whatever you need while you're here, just ask Gary if I'm not here."

With a pleasant smile and a manner as informal as the open-collared shirt he was wearing, Gary shook hands with both of them. "Please don't hesitate to call on me for any reason," he said. "I'm sort of a jack-of-all-trades."

The solarium was a huge, octagonal glass room at the back of the house, filled with full-size trees, tropical plants, and a little Asian bridge that crossed a miniature stream. Wicker settees with plump pillows were arranged in groupings beside pots filled with exotic blooms and beneath trellises covered in flowering vines. Near the footbridge, surrounded by towering trees and white orchids, two women watched the trio approach, and Sloan braced herself for a meeting that felt as odd as the setting in which it was taking place.

Paris's newspaper pictures had not done her justice, Sloan realized as she approached her glamorous sister. With her ivory skin, large brown eyes, and dark and glossy shoulder-length hair, Paris was the epitome of stylish elegance in a jade linen dress with a narrow skirt, wide sleeves, and tight cuffs decorated with bright gold buttons at the wrist. Still and silent, her hands folded loosely in her lap atop what appeared to be a sketchbook, she gazed at Sloan without betraying any emotion whatsoever.

Annoyed with her own attack of nervousness, Sloan concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Since she couldn't look as blasé as her sister, she focused instead on the ancient, thin woman seated beside her. Paul had described Edith Reynolds as a dragon, but Sloan thought she looked more like a frail hawk. Dressed in a stark black dress with a thick pearl choker at her throat, the old woman had a narrow patrician face, white skin as pale as her pearls, white eyebrows, and white hair pulled back into a severe chignon. Her light blue eyes were the only spot of color on her entire being, but they were as sharp and intense as twin laser beams as they focused on each and every feature of Sloan's face.

There was nothing frail about her voice either when she cut Carter off at the beginning of his attempted introduction. "Our identities must be obvious to her, Carter," she snapped. She transferred her glare to Sloan as if daring her to contradict that; then she said brusquely, "I am your great-grandmother, this is your sister, and you are Sloan."

Since her attitude verged on rudeness, Sloan decided to reply with nothing more than a silent nod of agreement, which caused the old woman to look a little taken aback. She switched her attention to Paul and attacked him instead. "Who are you?" she demanded.

This time, common courtesy required Sloan to speak. "This is my friend Paul Richardson," she said evenly; then she glanced at her father, who seemed to be completely unconcerned by the old woman's bizarre attitude. "I did make it clear that I was bringing a friend," she told the white-haired woman.

"Yes, but we naturally assumed you meant you were bringing a female with you," Edith Reynolds informed her. "I hope you do not intend to share a bedroom with him here."

Sloan had a swift, sudden urge to either laugh or leave, but since neither reaction fitted the personality Paul wanted her to assume, she tried to look completely oblivious to the old woman's provoking attitude. "No, ma'am, I didn't."

"Do not call me ma'am," she snapped. "You may address me as Great-grandmother," she decreed after a moment. She sounded like a monarch reluctantly granting an undeserved favor to a lowly peasant, and Sloan instantly decided never, ever, to address her in that way.

Oblivious of Sloan's mental mutiny, she turned her dagger gaze on Paul. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-nine."

"In that case, you are old enough to understand that in my house, certain rules of decorum are followed, regardless of whether anyone is around to watch you. Do you take my meaning?"

"I believe I do. Yes," he added when she scowled.

"You may address me as Mrs. Reynolds."

"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds," he replied courteously, managing to sound exactly like a chastened prep-school student instead of an FBI agent capable of bringing disaster down on her entire family.

Sloan's father finally stepped in. "Paris," he prompted his daughter, "I know you've been looking forward to this moment—"

Paris Reynolds took her cue and stood up in one graceful, fluid motion, her gaze fixed politely on Sloan. "Yes, I have." She said this in an exquisitely modulated but cautious voice and held out a perfectly manicured hand. "How do you do?" she asked.

How do I do what
? Sloan wondered irreverently (or a little desperately). The phrase
Stepford Sister
flitted through her mind. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, too," Sloan replied, shaking hands with the cultured stranger who was her sister.

Edith Reynolds had already wearied of the social niceties. "I'm sure that Sloan and Mr. Richardson would like to freshen up and rest before dinner," she said. "Paris will show you both to your rooms," she informed Sloan. "We gather for dinner at seven. Do not be late. And do
not
wear pants."

Sloan had dreaded and expected a long and awkward interview with her father and sister as soon as she arrived, so she was surprised and a little relieved that she was being given a two-hour reprieve by the old dragon. Although, her instincts told her that if Edith Reynolds had known Sloan wanted a reprieve, she probably would have insisted on the interview.

"Paris will make certain you're comfortably settled in," Carter Reynolds interjected with a warm, conciliatory smile at Sloan and then Paul. "We'll see you both at dinner."

Sloan followed in Paris's wake with Paul walking beside her, his hand touching her elbow in a polite, familiar way that fitted his assumed role as her boyfriend. She was so bemused by these peculiar people that she scarcely noticed the rooms they passed as they walked toward the foyer and climbed a long curving staircase with a wrought-iron railing and thick brass handrail. Thus far, the most "human" of the three was Carter Reynolds, whom she'd expected to be the most unlikable.

At the top of the staircase, Paris turned left and continued walking until they were almost at the end of the hall. "This is your room, Mr. Richardson," she intoned as she swung the door open on a spacious room decorated in jade green with massive Italian furniture. His suitcases were lying open on the bed. "If you need anything at all, just press the intercom button on the telephone," she said, and finished off her impeccably courteous speech with an equally courteous smile before she started down the hall again.

Paul had said people thought she was cold and aloof. She was worse than that—she was completely lifeless, Sloan decided with a twinge of disappointment that surprised her with its sharpness. Paris even moved as if the simple act of walking was actually a precisely orchestrated dance—her feet balanced on the high heels of her sandals, not too much hip movement, no swinging of the arms, shoulders back, head up.

"I'll see you at dinner, Sloan," Paul called softly.

Startled that she'd momentarily forgotten to play her part in the pretense, Sloan turned and said the first thing that came to mind. "Have a nice nap."

"You, too."

At the end of the hallway, Paris stopped at another door, opened it, and made the identical speech she'd made to Paul, complete with identical vocal inflections and matching perfunctory smile, but this time she hovered in the doorway as if waiting for something. She was probably expecting some sort of reaction to the accommodations, Sloan assumed as she glanced around at a spectacular suite decorated in shades of pale rose and cream-colored silks with delicate French furnishings glowing with gold leaf. Beneath her feet, the Oriental carpet was so thick it was like walking in sand. "This is—lovely," she said lamely, turning to face her sister in the doorway.

Paris made a graceful gesture toward a pair of French doors. The balcony has a view of the ocean that's particularly nice at sunrise."

"Thank you," Sloan said, feeling increasingly awkward.