A Self-Made Man (6 page)

“Yes. I mean, no….”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lacy could see Tilly returning to the table. Jennifer saw, too, and looked annoyed.

Taking a deep breath, the blonde smiled, obviously deciding to save time by taking the candid approach. “Look, Lacy. I've already approached Adam about the museum. That's under control—in fact, we're having dinner tonight. But it's more than that. I'm…well, I'm intrigued by Adam Kendall. But I thought you might—well, I would just hate to step on your toes, you know. I'd hate to spoil your plans without at least warning you.”

Her lovely smile was loaded with false sympathy for the pitiful girl who couldn't dream of competing with the stunning Jennifer Lansing. “I guess my question is—what exactly are you after, Lacy? The money? Or the man?”

The arrogance! Lacy tasted something bitter in her throat, as if the pear had been rotten. But two could play this game. Widening her eyes as if surprised, she summoned a smile that was every bit as artificial as Jennifer's.

“Why, the money, of course,” she said with syrup-covered steel in her voice. “As I'm sure you know, I've already had the man.”

 

G
WEN WAS STARTING
to wonder whether it had, on second thought, been such a great idea to buy a motorcycle.

It had a few good points. She definitely liked the way she looked in black leather pants and jacket. Very James Dean. And she loved the leers she got when she took off the bad-ass black helmet and her long blond curls came pouring out. “Well,” one great-looking guy had said with an appreciative smile. “If it isn't Hell's Angel.”

Right then, she hadn't even minded having crazy hair. Biker chicks weren't
supposed
to possess the Sleek Gene.

But she'd owned the bike only a week, and already the honeymoon was over. She had discovered that the stupid leather outfit was
hot.
Not hot like sexy. Hot like sweaty. Hot like gross and uncomfortable. And the motorcycle made an insane amount of noise,
which was kind of cool at first but eventually gave her a thumping headache.

And frankly she was having a little trouble staying balanced on the darn thing. Especially when she was taking off.

She wobbled in an irritating circle now, trying to kick the starter pedal just the right way so it would catch, but she was having a little trouble with that, too. She slammed her heel down for the tenth time, including a one-syllable, four-letter special request under her breath for good measure.

The gas caught briefly, lurching the bike forward, propelling it right toward a little red Austin Healy Sprite that had just pulled into the hotel parking lot.

Then the damn thing stalled again. She tilted sideways, barely managing to avoid bouncing her helmeted head on the sidewalk like a beach ball. But not quite managing to avoid dinging the driver's door of the Sprite with her handlebar.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered. This was going to be trouble. She knew how guys were about their cars. Darian, her late, unlamented boyfriend, had polished his hubcaps with a toothbrush. Twice a day. And her father—well, once he had darn near killed a valet who had left a fingerprint on the windshield.

Bracing herself for the storm, she straddled the motorcycle defiantly and evaluated the guy who was unfolding himself from the sports car. Late twenties, maybe. Blond hair. Loose Hawaiian print shirt flapping in the summer breeze, lifting to show a pair of khakis that fit well over a neat bottom.
Wow.
It was
kind of hard to see color and detail through her tinted visor, but darn, he was
cute.

He was coming her way. To her surprise, he was smiling. “You okay?”

Was
she
okay? He asked about her before he checked the damage to his car? She tilted her head, wondering if he might be gay.

She pried off her helmet to get a better look. As her curls tumbled free, his eyes widened. She knew that expression. He wasn't gay.

“Yeah,” she said. “I'm fine. Sorry about the ding.”

He didn't even turn around to look. “Hey, no problem. A car without dents is like a face without laugh lines. It hasn't really lived, you know?”

She stared at him. Not gay, but maybe nuts? “I guess,” she said doubtfully. “But still. I'll pay for the damage.” As soon as her next trust-fund check came through, she added mentally.

He shook his head. “I wouldn't dream of having it fixed. I'll tell everybody how this gorgeous woman came roaring by one day and left her mark on me forever.” He held out a tanned hand. “Travis Rourke,” he said, grinning. “Nice bike.”

She accepted his hand. “Gwen Morgan,” she said, her mouth forming an answering grin before her brain had given it permission. “Nice car.” She lifted one brow. “Except for the dent.”

He liked that. He laughed, showing even white teeth. The sound was comfortable, as if he laughed often, not worrying whether it might be more sophisticated to be blasé. For a moment Gwen envied him.
It was actually kind of exhausting to have to maintain an attitude twenty-four-seven.

“Are you staying here, too?” He indicated the hotel, which was Pringle Island's pride and joy—a four-star, gray-shingled resort with a thick, green golf course that overlooked the water.

“For the time being.” She really ought to go stay with the Stepwitch—she didn't have enough room on her Visa for two hours at the hotel, much less two nights. But she didn't feel up to facing Lacy just yet. Maybe tomorrow.

Travis Rourke looked pleased. “That's great. I'd love a ride on your bike—when you figure out how it works, that is.”

She tilted her chin. He'd been nice about the ding, but that didn't give him the right to mock her. “I just bought it, actually. It's kind of a pain, and I may not be keeping it.”

“Oh, you'll keep it,” he said. “Fifty bucks says you're way too proud to let yourself be beaten by a pile of tin.”

“Really.” She froze him with her most supercilious eyebrow arch. “I'm not sure a five-minute acquaintance quite authorizes you to make that call, does it? In fact, I can, and
will,
dump this bike whenever I choose.”

He grinned. “Yeah, that's what I used to say about cigarettes, too. But when I finally quit, they had to send in the nut squad to pry me off the ceiling.”

“Well. That's where we're different, I suppose.”

“Fifty bucks.” He held out his hand again. “A hundred.”

Someone was approaching from the other end of the parking lot—a tall man with an expensive business suit and a confident walk. He was headed their way—probably a lawyer who had smelled a fee from inside the hotel and was hurrying out to scatter his business card over the scene of the accident.

Gwen narrowed her eyes, then took Travis Rourke's hand firmly. She couldn't afford to lose a hundred dollars, but she couldn't afford to lose face, either. “You're on. I don't know how we'll prove it, but it's a bet.”

The approaching man was closer now, close enough that Gwen could tell that he wasn't a lawyer. At least not the ambulance-chaser kind. He might be the marble office, Rolex and cigar-smoking kind. It didn't matter much to Gwen. She hated both kinds equally.

“God, Travis, in town less than an hour, and already harassing people in the parking lot?” The tall, dark, gorgeous man turned to Gwen with a smile. If he was a lawyer, she thought suddenly, maybe she needed to revise her opinion of the profession. What a smile. “Sorry about Travis,” he went on, resting his hand on the shorter man's shoulder pleasantly. “He has six sisters who dote on him, so he thinks he's irresistible to women.”

Gwen tilted her head. Mr. Corporate Heartthrob was actually a buddy of Jimmy Buffet here? She looked both men over, chewing on the edge of her lip speculatively. Travis Rourke was cute—she hadn't changed her mind about that. But cute wasn't the word for this new one. In fact, the word for this one
wasn't even a word. It was just a sound. A kind of whimpering mew of animal appreciation.

She gave the newcomer her special smile, the slow one that included an eye massage. She hoped Travis Rourke noticed that it was much hotter than the one she'd given him. He needed to be put in his place a bit. A hundred dollars, indeed.

“Well, hi,” she said, as if she meant it. “I'm Gwen Morgan.”

“Ahh.” His eyebrows went up as one side of his mouth tucked subtly into a dimple. “I thought the silhouette looked familiar.”

So he had been there, last night, when she and Teddy had… Gwen hated the warmth that seeped disagreeably along her cheekbones. She wasn't ashamed of her behavior—if ever a group of bores had
needed
to have a stick of dynamite rammed into their stuffed shirts, that party had been it. But she knew that somehow, once again, Lacy had managed to make her bold whimsy appear merely foolish and immature.

She took a deep breath and stretched, putting the heels of her hands against the small of her back. It was a position that did wonders for her silhouette, and definitely put any questions of her maturity to rest. “Oh, so you were at the auction? Funny. You don't look like a guy who would be a big fan of cheesy, overpriced baby pictures.”

He chuckled. “Actually, I bought three of them.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Did you have too much to drink?”

“Baby pictures?” Travis looked put out, though whether it was because he'd been upstaged by his
hunky friend, or because he didn't approve of the baby pictures, Gwen couldn't really tell. “You're investing in art now, Adam? I thought you'd invited me here to buy real estate.”

His friend ignored him. “I'm Adam Kendall,” he said to Gwen with another one of those zinger smiles. “It's nice to meet you. Your stepmother and I are…old friends.”

She heard the hesitation as he tried to decide what to call it….
Old friends?
Oh, brother. Was there anymore transparent euphemism than that one?

So the Stepwitch hadn't always been made of ice? That was an interesting little nugget of information, which she stuffed into a mental pocket, recognizing that it could have its uses someday.

In fact, it might be useful right now. She'd been waiting for a sign to help her decide which of these great-looking guys to choose as her next conquest, and perhaps this was it. She rubbed her thumbs slowly over the ribbed handlebar and moistened her lips in eager anticipation. An “old friend” of Lacy's. How lucky could a girl get?

“Well, in that case, Mr. Kendall,” she said blandly, reaching around to pat the leather seat behind her. “Hop on.”

L
ACY'S DINNER GUESTS
left at ten-thirty, and, though she was exhausted, she forced herself to wash the brandy glasses. She never, ever went to bed with even one dirty spoon in the sink—Malcolm wouldn't have stood for it, and after all these years it had become a rather comforting habit. A habit she wasn't going to break now, no matter how she longed for sleep. Adam Kendall, damn him, wasn't going to destroy her routine as well as her peace of mind.

She still had two glasses to go when she realized that Hamlet, who usually slept on the breakfast nook windowsill, waiting for her to go to bed, was missing. Her chest tightened as she saw the mudroom door open a crack. Evelyn, her day cleaner who had stayed late to help with the party, must have left it unlatched again.

Drying her hands on the white cotton apron she'd pulled over her evening dress, Lacy hurried out to the west portico. She didn't need this right now. Seeing Adam at the hospital—and then that tacky confrontation with Jennifer Lansing—had left her so drained that she'd hardly been able to carry on a decent conversation at dinner. Foolishly, she'd drunk three glasses of champagne, hoping for a slight lift, but it
had only made her disagreeably tipsy, with a headache threatening.

And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose. There ought to be a law. Surviving a showdown with an old boyfriend should give you a free pass for the rest of the day.

Luckily, Hamlet was predictable. Whenever he got loose, he always dashed gleefully up the big English oak in the side yard, and then, as if the whole escapade hadn't been his own idea, cried plaintively to be rescued.

She leaned over the edge of the portico's balustrade and peered up into the murky branches of the hundred-year-old tree.
Whoops…
Squeezing her eyes shut against the tilting dizziness, she gripped the railing carefully. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She
really
should have stopped with just one glass of champagne….

Even when she felt stable enough to open her eyes again, she couldn't see a thing up in the tree. Rain was due before morning, and clouds as thick as black velvet smothered any moonlight.

“Hamlet?” She pursed her lips and aimed small kissing sounds toward the tree. The wind sent the leaves rustling like silk, but no frightened kitten emerged.

Why wasn't he crying? Protecting her equilibrium by moving very slowly, Lacy leaned farther over the railing, ignoring splinters that might snag her expensive embroidered bodice. The complete silence unnerved her. She told herself she was overreacting—if she hadn't had too much wine, she wouldn't be feel
ing this rising panic. Her breath was coming a little too fast, and she clutched the wood with anxious fingers.

Darn it, this was why she had always refused to own a pet. For ten years now she had resisted tumble-footed puppies, sleepy-eyed cats and operatic canaries—all offered by well-meaning friends who couldn't accept her preference for solitude. She'd even turned down a goldfish, for heaven's sake! How
could
she have let this little lost kitten slip past her defenses?

She kissed the air again, praying that he would hear her, but the murmuring of the ever-rising wind was her only answer. It lifted the sweet scent of her Lady Banks roses all the way from the east garden, but it didn't bring even a hint of Hamlet. Would he have left the yard? Please, no… The night was so ruthlessly black. It could swallow one tiny silver cat without a ripple.

“Hamlet. Hamlet.” Her headache had arrived. She bent over the railing, waiting for the porch to stop listing. “Oh, where are you, Hamlet?”

“I'm no Shakespearean scholar,” an amused voice said from somewhere just behind her left shoulder, “but shouldn't that be ‘Romeo'?”

Lacy whirled, her hand at her bare throat. “Adam,” she gasped on an intake of shallow breath that squeaked in a particularly humiliating way. Instinctively, she took refuge in anger. “What were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that? You startled me.”

He raised his brows, silently questioning the ex
tremity of her reaction. “Sorry,” he said politely. “I thought you heard me. I wasn't exactly in stealth mode. In fact, I just had a rather resonant encounter with your next-door neighbor.”

“Silas?” Oh, dear. Lacy's annoyance fled, replaced by a sense of dread. She uneasily scanned Adam's face for bruises or bleeding. “You ran into Silas Jared?”

“I didn't get his name. Nice fellow? Silver hair? Rather large rifle?”

She nodded nervously. Silas had his rifle out. That didn't sound good.

“He's an interesting old guy, isn't he?” Adam grinned slightly. “He thinks the world of you. Doesn't care much for strange men on your property, though.”

In spite of herself, Lacy smiled, picturing Adam staring down the barrel of Silas Jared's ancient rifle. Something—perhaps the three glasses of wine—made the image particularly funny.

“It's not personal,” she said apologetically, hoping she wasn't slurring her words at all. She couldn't bear for Adam to know that she was tipsy. “It's just that, well, Silas sort of appointed himself my protector when Malcolm died. Sometimes he gets a little…carried away. But don't worry. That rifle hasn't been loaded since the Civil War.”

“He mentioned that.” Adam chuckled. “But apparently he also has a bowie knife he's itching to use.” Hitching one foot up onto the porch step, he leaned across the railing comfortably. “So. Who's Hamlet?”

“Who's—” Lacy remembered suddenly, with a sting of remorse, that she still hadn't found Hamlet. She must be even more scatter-brained than she had realized.

“He's my kitten,” she said, looking up into the shadows of the oak once more. “I think he's stuck up in the tree. He's just four months old, and he can't get down—”

“Is he one of those flat-faced, spoiled-rotten, purebreds? Fur almost as silver as Silas Jared's hair?”

Lacy didn't like the description—it completely overlooked Hamlet's elegance and charm. But she had to admit it summed up the Persian cat fairly well. “Yes,” she said, too tired and worried to take offense. “Why? Have you seen a cat like that? When? Where?”

“Just now. Through your kitchen window. He had his face in a brandy snifter.”

“Hamlet!”
Relief and exasperation flowing equally through her system, Lacy rushed back inside. Just as Adam had said, Hamlet stood on the kitchen counter, whisker-deep in the half-empty brandy glass. “Hamlet, no!”

The kitten lifted a guilt-stricken, brandy-soaked face at the sound of Lacy's voice. Young as he was, he obviously knew trouble when he heard it. He tried to dart away, but his feet could find no traction on the marble countertop. Skidding helplessly, he churned his little legs until both he and the brandy glass tipped over in a splashing heap onto the kitchen floor. For a chaotic moment the air was filled with
splintering glass, meowling cat and one human cry of anguish.

Lacy rushed forward, but Hamlet, reeking of brandy and terrified beyond endurance, streaked through her grasping hands and headed for the open door.

“Adam!” she cried.

Thank heaven, Adam was already in action, shutting the door solidly behind him and capturing the fleeing animal, seemingly all in one easy movement.

Hamlet didn't bother to struggle. Instead he hung limply, eyes all blinking innocence, as Adam held him out toward Lacy, one hand on the scruff of his neck, the other tucked under his back legs. Brandy dripped between Adam's fingers.

“Oh, Hamlet, you rascal,” Lacy scolded, though a chuckle was pressing against her throat. He did look so ridiculous—like a soggy toupee. And he smelled simply horrible. Still, she took possession eagerly, gathering him up against her chest with a sense of exquisite relief. She combed her fingers through his fur, searching for any dangerous slivers of glass. Luckily there didn't seem to be any.

“Thank you, Adam,” she said belatedly, finally lifting her gaze from Hamlet's pitiful coat. To her surprise, Adam was watching her closely, a curious expression on his features. “Thank you so much.”

He nodded with a strange half smile, not taking his gaze from her, still apparently mesmerized by…by something.

“What?” she asked nervously, wondering if she had wet cat hair on her chin. “What is it?”

Perhaps it wasn't cat hair. Maybe it was something even worse. Now that her anxiety had begun to abate, she was becoming aware that she'd made a complete fool of herself. She'd been tearful, then flustered. And completely out of control.

She felt like cursing.
This
was why she should never have let Hamlet stay when he had materialized at her back door, all skin and bones and begging eyes. Loving anything too much made you do crazy things. Made you weak.

Of course, it was also why she should never have more than one glass of champagne at dinner.

She lifted her chin and drew herself up, knowing that the effort was probably wasted, that the purring wet tangle of hair now chewing on the beads of her bodice made any attempt at dignity futile. Sure enough, Adam was grinning.

“What?”
she asked again, her voice hardening just a little.

He glanced from Lacy to the kitten, then back to Lacy. “Nothing,” he said calmly. “It's just that—I prefer dogs, myself.” He smiled. “They hold their liquor better.”

She resisted the urge to smile back. “Adam,” she said, trying to focus. “I appreciate your help, but what, exactly, are you doing here?”

“You mean, besides playing goalie in this rather fascinating game of cat-hockey? I think I'm mopping up a pile of broken glass.” He sauntered into the kitchen and slid a towel from the drain rack.

“No, really,” she said, following him with something that felt like desperation. How had things come
so unglued? How had she ended up with her cat reeking of liquor, her kitchen a shambles…and Adam Kendall standing in it, acting as if he owned the place? “Don't bother. I can do it la—”

“Don't come in here. You're barefoot.”

Good Lord, she was. She looked down at her feet as if they had betrayed her. She must look like a madwoman. A brandy-stained apron flung over an evening dress, hair tugged out of its once-pristine French twist, barefoot and covered in cat hair…

“Lacy.” He had already shed his jacket, and was crouching, one knee on the kitchen floor, a paper towel in his hand. He began plucking glittering shards from the soupy mess with long, deft fingers. “Throw that cat in the bathtub.” He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “God—you
can
wash cats, can't you?”

“Of course,” she said defensively. Why defensively? She couldn't imagine. She didn't care whether he liked cats or not. Besides, wasn't he supposed to be with Jennifer Lansing tonight? Why was he here, criticizing her choice of pets? “Of course you can wash a cat.”

“Then do it,” he said, returning his attention to his mission. “And while you're at it, you might want to climb in with him. Brandy doesn't make the best perfume, especially after a few hours.”

One sniff told her he was right. But still she hovered in the doorway, strangely reluctant to go, reluctant to leave him here, alone in her little kitchen. Malcolm's kitchen, actually. But still…it seemed too intimate, somehow.

Hamlet had dozed off, nestled against her breast. His purring vibrated against her skin.

“Adam,” she began stiltedly. “I really do appreciate your help with Hamlet.” It was easier to talk, she discovered, when she couldn't see his face. “It's just that… Well, I just wanted you to know things aren't usually this…chaotic here. I'm a little tired tonight, and I was terribly worried about Hamlet. That may seem silly to you, but he's very young, and—”

Finally Adam looked up. “Don't apologize for being human, Lacy,” he said dryly. “It's actually considered desirable in some parts of the world.”

“But I—” She touched her dangling hair helplessly and attempted a nonchalant laugh. “You see, I had a little too much to drink at dinner. It was an awful situation. Tilly had brought in this potential investor, but then she simply couldn't stand him, and she was arguing with everything he said, and it was so stressful, so I just kept filling everyone's champagne glass, and…” She stopped herself with effort. Why was she telling him this? “Not,” she added hurriedly, “that I could conceivably be considered
drunk…
”

He smiled, turning a large, curving piece of broken crystal in his fingers. “No,” he agreed. “You couldn't. You've probably had…what…two glasses of wine? No more than three.”

She stared at him. “How—”

Cocking his head slightly to one side, he studied her pleasantly. “As I recall, once you get to four your left eyelid droops an eighth of an inch. At five you have trouble with words like ‘conceivably,' and you can't stop yawning. By six, you're out cold.”

She felt herself flushing, and she struggled to contain it. Good grief, she might have guessed he'd remember that. She'd been a teenager then, for heaven's sake, experimenting with adult sins, getting high for the first time on the forbidden thrill of cheap convenience store beer. Adam himself never drank a drop, not that night or ever. The son of an alcoholic father, he'd refused to follow in his father's footsteps, which had always been skidding downhill.

But Adam had sat with her, out in Tilly Barnhardt's stables, watching over her while she stupidly drank herself into a stupor. After the first beer, she had danced, twirling merrily from the stall gate. After three, she had sung love songs along with the radio till the horses grew restless. At five, she had pressed herself urgently against Adam like a hoyden, inhibitions banished. And then, at six, long before she could persuade him to seduce her, she had fallen asleep like a baby in his arms.