Storm Over the Lake (4 page)

Dana nodded. “Oh, he can be such a…”

“Don't say it, I get the general idea. Sit down, honey, and talk to me while I get dinner.”

Dana dropped onto one of the chairs and sat with her chin in her hands, dejected and miserable. “He's a beast.” She got up and went to the cupboard, taking out a cup.

“There's a reason,” Lillian said quietly, eyeing Dana while she rolled a piecrust, her brown hands flecked with flour and dough. “He's so alone.”

“We all are,” Dana said absently, her eyes blank on the shimmering black coffee as she poured herself a cup of the steaming brew and sat back down. “Every one of us.”

“Not like he is.” Lillian picked up the pie tin and a sharp knife, and trimmed the
excess pastry away in a neat motion. “And I don't mean just since the Missus died. She hated him. Hated his job, hated his hobbies, hated his civic work…she was jealous of him. If you'd worked here while she was still alive, she'd have made life hell for you. She drove him wild with her jealousy. You know,” she said solemnly, setting down the pie crust to study Dana, “she used to call restaurants where he'd be entertaining clients, to see who he was with. She was always checking up on him.”

Dana nodded. “I remember hearing you talk about it, years ago. He…he was a very attractive man, I don't suppose she could help being jealous if she loved him.”

“That's the whole point, she didn't,” Lillian said gruffly. “She didn't care if he died, but she was scared he'd find some other woman and kick her out. She liked the money, the clothes, the fancy cars. She liked her life, and didn't have any notion of changing it.”

“But she had lovers…”

“Only the one who killed her,” Lillian
recalled. “He was special, but when the Mister told her to give him up, she didn't give it a second thought. They said that was why her lover killed her, because she was breaking it off. She'd given him God knows how many expensive things, including a car…the trial cut the Mister apart,” she said, shaking her head. “It ripped his pride to shreds, but I never heard him say a word about it. Not one word. He buried it inside.”

Something else for him to blame me for, Dana thought miserably. To lose his fortune and his pride at the same time would have been a blow few men could have borne. But Adrian Devereaux was a breed apart, and nothing could bring him to his knees.

“He loved her?” she murmured absently.

“Honey, you can't live with someone for thirteen years and not feel anything when they die,” Lillian said with a patient smile. “I think he had to feel something for her. She was a very beautiful woman, and she could be charming. But she sure
didn't care about him. Wouldn't even give him children—she was afraid they'd ruin her figure.”

“Maybe he didn't want them,” she murmured.

Dana felt those wise eyes on her. “He wanted them. There's a child-hunger in that man. He wants an heir. But,” she added coolly, “he needn't think this new girl's going to give him one! She likes her girlish figure, too, for all that her girlhood years are behind her,” she mumbled cattily.

“Is she his age?”

“Just about.” Lillian smiled. “You're a baby compared to both of them. You steer clear of the dragon, honey, she'll burn you to a cinder.”

“I can't. He's getting me up a list of people to invite to a party on the lake this weekend. I'll just bet her name's at the top of the list.”

“God love you, child,” Lillian sighed. She poured the apple mixture into her pie shell and laid the second crust on top, pinching the edges together in a pretty
fluted pattern. Just as Dana's mother used to do, years ago, before…

“He hates me, you know,” she told Lillian, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with one long, slender finger.

“Why?” Lillian asked quietly. “If you hadn't written that story, somebody else would have. And if something's meant to happen, young one, it will.”

“You're a fatalist.”

“You betcha. The Mister hates what happened, but I don't think he'd carry a grudge that far that long,” she said firmly, wiping her hands. She opened the oven door and shot the pie in, closing it gently. “He'll get over it.”

“I should live so long,” Dana murmured, pushing her taffy-colored hair back into her bun. “He's got me for six months, and I promise I'll pay for sins I haven't even thought of committing before he's through with me. He can be so ruthless, Lillian.”

“And so blind.”

Dana met the older woman's sharp eyes. “Blind?” she echoed.

Lillian returned her attention to the remains of the pie crust and began to clean it up. “Tell me what you've been doing for the past three years.”

“If I can have another cup of coffee, I'll give you all the inside gossip about that society murder in Miami earlier this month.”

“The one where the main suspect was found dead with his mistress?” Lillian asked, wide-eyed.

“The very same.”

“Here,” she said, handing Dana the coffee pot. “And I'll throw in a homemade sweet roll. Start talking.”

S
he got through the week, but her nerves were almost in shreds by the end of it. Confirming those miserable invitations had been an inhuman test of her temper. The men liked her husky voice and wanted to flirt. The women wanted to know why “Adrian” wasn't extending personal invitations, and who was Dana? But the dragon was the worst of all. The very worst.

“Hello,” the reply came when Dana
reached Fayre Braunn's residence, in a voice like silk and honey.

“Miss Braunns, I'm calling for Adrian Devereaux,” Dana said in the pat speech she'd rehearsed. “He'd like you to join him at a party on the lake Saturday night about seven. He'll pick you up at your apartment at six.”

“Who are you?” Fayre asked haughtily, all the silk and honey turning bitter.

“I'm Dana Meredith, Mr. Devereaux's private secretary.”

“Well, well, he hasn't mentioned
you
. How long have you worked for him?”

“A week, Miss Braunns. Will you attend the party?”

“Oh, good heavens, of course I will! How old are you, Miss Meredith?” the voice purred.

“Eighty-six. And a half,” she added tartly. “I'll tell Mr. Devereaux you'll be ready. Goodbye.” She hung up on the gasp at the other end of the line. Her chest rose in an agitated sigh. She knew she'd catch hell for that piece of effrontery, but she didn't regret it. Not one little bit.

She didn't regret it until she heard him come into the den, and turned and saw the familiar black anger written all over his heavily lined face.

“You, madam,” he said levelly, “are pushing your luck over a cliff. I've just spent the past hour calming a very irritated tigress who seems to have the idea that I'm harboring a kept woman!”

“If you mean the dra…I mean, Miss Braunns,” she corrected quickly, “she was more interested in interrogating me than she was in accepting…”

“I don't give a damn. If she wants to know the color of your pajamas, Meredith, you tell her!” His eyes narrowed, glittering down as he stood over her at the desk. “By God, you're an employee here, not the mistress of the house dispensing invitations!”

She felt every muscle in her body contract at the icy attack, and it took every bit of will power she possessed to keep her composure. “Excuse me, I didn't realize that the job involved selling my pride as well.”

“It involves whatever I say it involves. You were rude, Miss Priss, and deliberately.” His jaw set. “Never again, do you understand me? Or I'll set you down in a way you'll grow old trying to forget!”

She raised her face, a calm expression pasted to it. “Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir. I'm very sorry sir.”

His hands clenched into huge fists on the surface of the desk, the knuckles going white. He drew a heavy, harsh breath and turned away, going to stand at the window with his hands jammed into his pants pockets.

“I've never known a woman who could get under my skin the way you do,” he growled. “God, you make me want to do something violent…!”

“If I were a man, you'd hit me, wouldn't you?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Then, I'm very glad I'm not a man, Mr. Devereaux, because I don't imagine you pull your punches.”

He glanced at her hotly. “I don't. Any more than you pull yours.” He studied her pale face. “Just how deep does that veneer
of composure go, Meredith?” His lips narrowed. “One day, I'm going to strip you out of it and see what's underneath.”

She avoided his eyes and rose from the desk. “I'm through for the day. Do you mind if I help Lillian in the kitchen, sir?”

He hesitated. “Hell, go ahead.” He lit a cigarette. “Don't tell me cooking's among your many talents?”

She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I'm very good with hemlock and toadstools,” she said quietly.

“No doubt.” He didn't say another word as she left.

Supper was frigid. Utterly frigid. She'd tried to take refuge in the kitchen with Lillian, but he wouldn't hear of that. With a thread of pure anger in his deep voice, he'd practically ordered her to his table. And watched her relentlessly while she picked at her food.

“If you don't eat,” he said finally, leaning back in the chair to watch her through narrowed eyes, “I'll feed you myself.”

Her head jerked up and her lips started to form words.

“Oh, hell, yes, I will,” he said, anticipating her protest. “You've lost at least three pounds since you've been here. I want a healthy secretary, Meredith, not a sickly scarecrow, do you understand me? Now, eat!”

She lifted the food to her lips with numb fingers, barely tasting the perfectly seasoned rice, the deliciously tender veal. Not, “I'm concerned about you, take care of yourself”—but, “I need your services, stay well.” Damn him, he didn't have an ounce of kindness in his whole body, she thought, hurting from the onslaught. She finished her dinner, drank her coffee, and finally escaped to the kitchen where she spent the rest of the evening with Lillian.

She had started up the stairs to bed when, on an impulse she went out the door instead and into the garden.

It was a warm, spring night, and the scent of white roses was everywhere. In the pale moonlight, they seemed to glow, a delicate fantasy of beauty spreading over the gentle slope of the lawn in manicured perfection. She paused on the brick walk-
way and touched one of them, pressing it to her cheek as she inhaled the sweet fragrance.

“Looking for unicorns, Meredith?”

She jumped, startled by the deep, curt voice, and pricked her finger on a thorn as she turned to see the master of the house standing a few feet behind her. His jacket and tie were gone and his shirt was open halfway down that massive chest, revealing bronzed skin and a mat of black, curling hair. His dark slacks hugged his narrow hips and his powerful legs as he stood, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette. His whole posture was threatening.

“I…I don't believe in unicorns anymore, Mr. Devereaux,” she said in a thin voice, touching the pricked finger to her lips, amazed that he'd remembered that long-ago conversation…

“You used to,” he said quietly. “We stood here in the garden and talked about myths, and I told you I was past the age of believing in them. And you said that you did.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Three years?” He drew the cigarette to his broad, chiseled mouth. “Long enough. Has reporting made you cynical, little girl? Has it made you bloodless, painless, invulnerable?”

She shuddered, although the night was warm, hearing that rescue worker's voice in her mind as she'd heard it for six months, “What the hell are you people, vultures?! My God, you're making a carnival out of it…!”

“NO!” The word broke from her, and she clasped her hands around her shaking body and turned away from him, with a knife-like pain in her heart. She took a deep breath.

“What's the matter, Meredith?” He moved closer. “Did I hit a nerve?”

She closed her eyes. “I…finished the invitation calls,” she said, businesslike and calm again. “Do you have anything in particular for me to get out tomorrow, sir?”

He drew a sharp breath, as if he didn't like the change of subject, and turned
away. He started rattling off chores, and her mind wandered briefly away to the sound of angry voices and weeping and yelled commands…

“…need that letter out first thing in the morning,” he was saying as she forced her mind back to the present. “And cancel that Rotary Club speech, I don't have time. Think you've got all that, Meredith?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded. “Yes, sir. What about Mr. Samson? He was supposed to meet you for a drink after the Rotary meeting.”

“Efficient, aren't you?” he growled, his dark eyes narrow and angry in the soft white moonlight.

“You pay me to be efficient, Mr. Devereaux,” she said primly. “What about Mr. Samson?”

“Tell him I'll meet him for lunch Friday at the country club.”

“You can't,” she reminded him. “You have to be in Chicago Friday to discuss the Shore contract.”

“Then Monday.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned away.

“Meredith?”

“Yes, sir?”

There was a hesitation, about the space of a heartbeat. “Walk with me.”

Confused, she turned and fell into step beside him, his behavior making her mind spin. From anger to companionship in seconds, his lightning mood changes stunned her. He wasn't a tall man, she thought, noticing that he was barely half a head taller than she was in her three-inch heels. But he was so big, so broad and leonine, that he seemed to tower over people. Warmth and power radiated from him, a dark, strong warmth that made her want to feel the strength in his arms…She flicked her eyes toward the house, trying to ignore the buried longings that his company was resurrecting.

He took a long draw from his cigarette. “Why reporting?” he asked conversationally. “Why not fashion or advertising?”

She watched the shimmer of moonlight on the dewy grass. “Because I could write. I never wanted to do anything else. At first,” she recalled, smiling, “I wanted to
be a novelist. But I found out that a lot of people wanted to be novelists, people with more talent than I'd ever have. So I settled for truth instead of fiction.”

“Truth?” he asked quietly.

She withdrew, like a child that had stretched its hand toward a warm, welcoming flame, only to have it burned. “I'm sorry.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “You cost me a fortune. And you're sorry.”

She closed her eyes against the hurt. “I tried to tell you that I didn't leave the word out. It was there, on my copy, when the magazine came out…!”

“Was it?” he growled.

“Would you like to hit me?” she asked, stopping in her tracks to turn her pale haunted face up to his. “If it would make you feel better, then go ahead! I've been hurt so much already, I won't even feel it!”

He stopped too, his eyes sliding over her face, her throat. “What I'd like to do to you doesn't bear telling,” he said with a soft fury in his voice. “I haven't forgotten
that sleazy character I saw you with, that bald-headed fat man you took for a lover! Damn you…!”

“I'd like to go in now, please,” she said, her voice a husky shadow of sound in the darkness. “I'm very tired.”

“What have you done to make you so tired, Meredith?” he demanded, slinging the finished cigarette into the darkness. “What have you done besides answer the phone and type letters?”

“Been slowly crucified by you!” she almost screamed, desperation in her eyes, her voice, her posture.

He moved closer, until he was within easy touching distance, until she could feel the heat of his big, vibrant body, until his dark face filled the world. One hand came out of his pocket, one dark, beautiful hand with square-tipped, broad fingers that caught her soft throat like a fleshy vise and caused her pulse to do cartwheels.

“What did you expect when I sent for you?” he asked slowly, his fingers absently caressing the silken flesh of her throat. “That I wanted you here because
you were haunting my dreams, because my life was empty and cold without you in it? Did you think I sent for you out of love, Meredith?!”

She felt tremors running the length of her slender body. His nearness was as much the cause of it as fear. She could feel his warm breath on her forehead, smell the sharp, musky scent of his cologne, feel the hardness of him as if he were already holding her. She wanted to move closer, to feel him against the length of her softness, to touch that hard, dark chest with its curling mat of hair…

“I…I don't know,” she stammered. I…I…”

“You're stammering, little girl,” he murmured, a dangerous softness in his deep voice as his other hand went down to her waist, drawing her against his big body with a lazy tenderness that made her tremble. Her cold hands pressed patterns into the warmth of his cotton shirt over that warm, unyielding chest.

“Please don't,” she whispered.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it won't mean anything,” she replied easily. The feel of that powerful driving masculinity so close against her was like a narcotic.

His thumb moved softly, gently against the softness of her mouth, his fingers coaxing her cheek against his warm shoulder so that he could look down into her eyes.

“Little girl,” he whispered deeply. “You used to sit and watch me, like some little golden kitten, while I dictated letters late at night by the fireplace. I can still see that look in your eyes—soft and curious and just a little hungry. God, you were vulnerable then! Mine for the asking, if I'd realized it…a sweet little innocent, ripe for the picking, and I was too damned blind to notice that you wanted me to pick you.”

“I didn't!” she whispered frantically, pushing at his solid chest.