Night Whispers (17 page)

"Like what?"

He laughed at her intent expression. "Like the fact that I need to change my stock market investment strategy. Interesting, isn't it, that their opinions differ so much? Your father controls a bank with branches all over the world, and Maitland has investments all over the world. They both have common interests and a global outlook. I expected them to have a reasonably similar philosophy."

"I thought the same thing," Sloan said. "Fundamentally, it seemed to me that they both think the same things are going to happen, but they disagreed on the effect and the timing. I noticed they seem to do a lot of off-shore investing."

He slanted her an odd smile. "I noticed that, too."

He walked her to her bedroom door, but instead of saying good night in the hall, he followed her into the bedroom and closed the door; then he waited.

"What are you doing?" Sloan asked, already halfway across the room and removing her earrings.

"Kissing you good-night," he joked.

When he left, Sloan decided to write a letter to Sara while all the events of the evening were still fresh in her mind. A television set was concealed inside the antique armoire across from her bed, and she turned on CNN; then she went to work on the letter.

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^
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T
he first hour after dawn was Sloan's favorite time of day to run along the beach, but it was nearly seven o'clock when she woke up. Anxious to get started, she hurried out of bed, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and put on a pair of shorts and a tank top that Sara hadn't removed when she repacked Sloan's suitcases.

The house seemed deserted as she walked silently along the hallway and down the stairs, but outside, two men were pruning a hedge along the side of the property. Sloan waved to them as she jogged across the lawn, her spirits already beginning to lift as she breathed in the salty air and felt the familiar presence of the sea. Lazy waves lapped the sand beside her feet as she ran along the water's edge, and gulls wheeled by, their boisterous cries as uplifting and soothing to her as music.

Overhead, the sky was crystal blue with fat white clouds floating by on a gentle cooling breeze. On her left, the ocean filled the entire horizon, majestic, beautiful, untamed. On her right, the horizon was obscured by a procession of mansions, a few of which were even bigger than her father's, and there was some sort of activity at all of them. Gardeners were looking after flower beds, servants were tidying patios and taking care of swimming pools, and sprinkler systems were spraying water on lawns that sparkled like wet emeralds in the morning sun.

Concentrating her gaze on the ocean, Sloan ran three miles along the water's edge and then turned back. She kept up the pace until the little flag on her father's putting green was visible; then she slowed to a jog. Palm Beach residents evidently slept later than their Bell Harbor counterparts, she decided, because she'd had the beach almost to herself on the first half of her run, but now there were several other people running along the sand. Runners here were also less friendly, avoiding eye contact instead of greeting each other as they passed with a nod or smile.

Sloan was pondering that when she was distracted by an elderly gardener in a long-sleeved shirt who'd been working in a flower bed near the edge of the lawn. He stood up; then he clutched his left arm and doubled over. Sloan ran toward him, already scanning the grounds for someone to help her if help was needed, but he seemed to be the only one working at that house.

"Take it easy," she said gently. "I'll help you. Lean on me." She wrapped her arm around his waist, wondering if he could make it to the iron bench that encircled the trunk of a nearby tree. "Tell me what's wrong."

"My arm," he gasped, white-faced with pain.

"Are you having any chest pains?"

"No. Had surgery… on my… shoulder."

Enormously relieved that it wasn't a heart attack, Sloan guided him over to the tree and eased him onto the white iron bench. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly," she coached. "Do you have any medicine to take for the pain?"

He took a deep breath and then another, following her instructions. "I'll be all right… in a minute."

"Take your time. I'm not in any hurry."

After a few more deep breaths, the gardener lifted his head and looked at her, and Sloan noticed his color was already improving. He was a little younger than she'd thought—probably in his late sixties—and he looked thoroughly chagrined. "When I stood up, I forgot and leaned on my left arm," he explained. "I felt like my shoulder was going to tear loose from the rest of me."

"How long ago was your surgery?"

"Last week."

"Last week! Shouldn't you be wearing some sort of brace?"

He nodded. "Yes, but I can't use my arm with that contraption on."

"Surely someone else here could take over your work while your shoulder heals, and you could do their work."

He stared at her as if that had never occurred to him and yet the possibility fascinated him. "What sort of work do you think I could do here?"

"This must be one of the biggest estates in Palm Beach. There must be something to do here that isn't heavy labor. You should talk to whoever owns this place and explain your condition."

"He already knows about my shoulder. He thinks I should stop doing everything until it heals."

"He won't give you another job to do?" Sloan said, angry at the callous indifference of the very rich to the financial plight of the less fortunate.

He patted her hand, touched by her indignation on his behalf. "I'll be fine if you just sit here and talk to me for a while. Conversing with a sweet, pretty little thing like you is better than any painkiller I could take."

"Will you get into trouble by sitting out here with me?"

He smiled, thinking that over. "I can't see how, but it's a delightful prospect to contemplate."

Several things struck Sloan at once: his hand was smooth, his speech was educated, and his attitude was almost flirtatious. Embarrassed, she started to stand up. "You're not the gardener. I made a foolish mistake. I'm sorry."

He tightened his grip on her hand to prevent her from standing, but he let it go when she sat back down. "Don't run off and don't be embarrassed. I was very touched by your concern and glad of your help. Few young people here would have stopped to help an old gardener in pain."

"You
aren't
an old gardener," Sloan persisted, amused by his audacity.

"I'm a
new
gardener. I needed a temporary hobby while my shoulder heals. I had the surgery on an old injury that was beginning to ruin my golf game." His voice took on a truly dire note as he confided, "I developed a hook in my drives that I couldn't get rid of, and my short game was atrocious."

"That's… tragic," Sloan sympathized, trying not to laugh.

"Exactly. And this house belongs to my son, who is so heartless that he not only played golf without me yesterday, he also had the insensitivity to shoot a seventy-two!"

"He's a monster!" Sloan teased. "He doesn't deserve to live!"

He chuckled. "I love a woman with a sense of humor, and yours is showing. I'm intrigued. Who are you?"

Sloan's father's house was only a few houses down the beach from this one, and there was every chance the two men were acquainted. She didn't want to reveal that she was Carter Reynolds's daughter, and yet she'd be in plain view of this man when she left here and returned to the house. "My name is Sloan," she evaded.

"Is that your first name?"

"Yes. What's your name?" she added quickly, before he could ask for her last name.

"Douglas, and I haven't seen you around here before."

"I live in Bell Harbor. I'm visiting some people down the beach, but only for a few days."

"Really, what people? I know most of the families along this stretch of the beach."

Sloan was trapped. "Carter Reynolds's family."

"Good heavens! I've known the Reynoldses forever. You must be a friend of Paris's?"

Sloan nodded and looked at her watch. "I really should go"

He looked so crestfallen that she felt guilty. "Couldn't you spare a few more minutes to brighten the day of a lonely old man? The doctor won't let me drive, and my son is either working or out somewhere. I assure you, I'm completely harmless."

Sloan was a sucker for the plight of the elderly, including the wealthy elderly, who she now realized must also suffer from loneliness. "I guess I have a little while before I have to play tennis. What would you like to talk about?"

"Mutual acquaintances?" he suggested at once and with unabashed delight. "We could have a good gossip—tear their reputations to shreds! That's always amusing."

Sloan burst out laughing at his tone and his suggestion. "That won't work. The only people I know in Palm Beach are the Reynolds family."

"It wouldn't be much fun to gossip about them," he joked. "They're dreadfully dull and as upright as trees. Let's talk about you instead."

"I'm dull, too," she assured him, but he was not to be derailed from his chosen topic. "You're not wearing a wedding ring, which means you're not married, which means you must occupy your time in some other way. Do you have a career?"

"I'm an interior designer," Sloan replied, and quickly added, "but that's not a very interesting topic. Let's talk about something that interests you, too."

"I'm quite interested in beautiful young women who, for some reason, do not want to talk about themselves," he said with a sudden perspicuity that surprised and alarmed Sloan after his seemingly lighthearted, innocuous banter. "However," he reassured her, "I won't pry into your secrets. Let's see—we need a mutually interesting topic. I don't suppose you're fascinated with corporate mergers, high finance, world politics—that sort of thing?"

Sloan nodded eagerly. "I heard some interesting theories on the future of the world market at dinner last night."

He looked staggered, gratified, and impressed. "A beautiful woman with a soft heart, a sense of humor, and a fine mind. No wonder you aren't married—I'll bet you frighten young men your own age to death." He flashed her an engaging smile that made Sloan wonder if he was quite as harmless as he'd said; then he slapped his knee and announced, "Let's talk about the Russian economy. I
love
to hear myself talk on
that
subject. I never fail to amuse myself with my own wisdom and insight…"

Sloan laughed, helplessly charmed by his humor. And then she listened. And was impressed.

When she left, Douglas Maitland stood at the edge of the lawn, watching her; then he strolled back to the house and sauntered into the kitchen. "Good morning," he told his son and daughter as he helped himself to a cup of coffee. "You should have watched the sun come up today. It was beautiful."

His son was sitting at the kitchen table, reading
The Wall Street Journal
. His daughter was removing a bagel from the toaster. They both looked up in surprise at his buoyant tone. "You're in remarkably good spirits this morning," Noah observed.

"I've had a remarkable morning."

"Doing what?" his daughter, Courtney, challenged skeptically. "In the first place, you haven't gone anywhere. In the second place, there's nowhere to go. Palm Beach is the
pits
. I can't believe you actually expect me to live here permanently when I could stay in California and board at school."

"I must be a masochist," Douglas told her cheerfully. "However, to answer your original question, my morning was made remarkable by the presence of a fascinating young woman who noticed that my shoulder was causing me pain, and who offered assistance and then conversation."

Courtney's eyes narrowed. "How young a woman?"

"Under thirty, I'd guess."

"Oh, great! The last two times you met 'a fascinating young woman' who was 'under thirty,' you married her."

"Don't be sarcastic, Courtney. One of those women was your mother."

"The second one was too young to have children," she lied.

Douglas ignored her and described Sloan to his son. "She mistook me for a gardener—an understandable mistake, considering that I was digging in the dirt. We had a delightful discussion. You'll never guess who she is—"

"Let me try," Courtney interrupted. "While you talked to her, was she sitting on a tuffet, eating curds and whey?"

Both men ignored her. "Who is she?" Noah asked.

"If you had dinner with Carter last night, you probably met her. I would have asked her about that, but I rather hated to admit I had a son your age. My vanity had already taken a blow by being mistaken for the gardener. Her name is Sloan."

Noah gave a bark of laughter. "You have to be joking! What on earth did you find to talk to her about?"

"Many things. We discussed world affairs, the economy—"

"You must have done all the talking," his son said sarcastically. "She couldn't carry an intelligent conversation in a basket."