Katherine O’Neal (9 page)

Collecting himself, he heaved a ragged
breath. “I can’t do this,” he said as his fingers slid out of her
and left her aching with unquenched desire. Slowly, reluctantly, he
skimmed her skirt back over her trembling thighs. She heard it
swish as the hem fell to her ankles. “I can’t be with you, wanting
you, needing you, never knowing where I stand. I know you’re
marrying Winston. I
know
it, dammit. But something—some
distant voice inside—keeps whispering that you belong to me. That
no man alive can understand you, accept you, the way I can. That at
Winston’s side, you’d be shackled to an impossible existence. But
in my arms, you’d be set free.”

“Don’t say that,” she cried. “I don’t want to
believe that. I can’t believe it.”

She had to remember who he was. He was her
enemy. The brother of the man who... The son, the grandson, the
great
grandson, of all the Blackwood enemies before him. He
wasn’t just a man. He was a symbol. He was something to conquer. To
vanquish, just as she must banish his words from her brain. She had
to remain strong. Because the truth was, he was making her feel
things no man ever had. He was opening a core of emotion that she’d
clamped tight years ago. With his persuasions, with the uncanny
gospel of his words, he was piercing secret corners of her
purposely sealed heart.

Putting his hands to her shoulders, he spun
her around with such force that her head swayed precariously.
Reaching around her, he cupped her backside and hauled her fiercely
close. “If you don’t want me, goddammit, say so,” he demanded. “But
if there’s hope... If you think of me at night, when no one’s
around to know—”

She must remember her role. She had to string
him along until the wedding. “Even if that were true, I wouldn’t
tell you,” she whispered, more honestly than she’d intended.

He pulled her into his arms and held her
close, as if savoring the sound of the words.

Suddenly, she remembered the wallet she’d
secreted in her pocket. This was the perfect opportunity to replace
it. She went to reach for it, but he caught her hand and brought it
to his lips.

“Then at least I can feel free to hope.”

His lips against her palm were warm,
persuasive, sending electrical shocks up her arm. Then, just as
abruptly as he’d taken her, he let go and allowed her to fall back
against the tree. She felt so shaken, she struggled to take deep
breaths, desperate to calm her throbbing nerves.

She waited until he was heading toward the
exit of the Park before sliding her hand into her pocket. Empty!
She tried the other one. Again, nothing. A white rage blinded her.
He’d known all along. All this time, while making her feel that
he’d slipped and confessed inner truths, he’d been stealthily
lifting the billfold from her pocket. Without her even feeling
it!

Her rage subsided, to be replaced by a
strange sense of kinship. He was a master, there was no doubt about
it. And he was as reckless as she. If she’d risked tipping her hand
by purloining his billfold, he’d been equally improvident in
recovering it. They had, that afternoon, effectively laid their
cards on the table, as much as admitting, in their folly, who they
were. Because at the finish, it was the game that counted, and not
the end result. No one but a Blackwood could understand a
Sherwin.

But what did he really know, and how much was
intuition, guesswork? More importantly, what would be his next
move?

For three days, Saranda awaited Blackwood’s
next move. Every time someone walked into a room, she jumped,
thinking it might be him. At all the balls held in Winston’s and
her honor, she studied the guests in vain, hoping to catch a
glimpse of his familiar figure looming over the crowd. Yet, in
spite of her vigilance, he was noticeably absent from the
festivities. As he continued to stay away, the suspense made her
edgy; she wondered if she would find him around the next comer, or
if the next voice she heard would be his. Others attributed it to
pre-wedding jitters. But she knew different. Remarkably, as her
tension mounted, she found herself missing him. She’d been looking
forward to a bit of sport before the wedding, when her real
campaign to destroy him would begin. She felt strangely let down by
his confounding refusal to play the game.

But female intuition told her there was more
to it. That he was feeling as battered by the game as she. That he
was disconcerted by the same maelstrom that had confused her own
senses since the night of the masked ball. The night he’d thrust
her wrists above her head and, roping them tight, had staked his
claim on her trembling body, and taught her what it was like to
feel helpless desire. Flam artist he might be, but she’d felt in
him the same unchecked passion, the same doubts, that kept her
tossing at night in sweat-dampened sheets.

She wished Bat were still here. It would be a
comfort to have someone to talk to—to help her put things in
perspective. Because if Blackwood
was
feeling the same
desperate longing for her that she was for him... where did they go
from here?

The night before the wedding, there was yet
another prenuptial ball. Saranda adorned herself in pale pink
off-the-shoulder satin in a studied departure from the dark gowns
that dominated the fashion scene. At the last minute, she removed
her satin drawers and tossed them tempestuously aside. With one
night left, Blackwood would no doubt choose tonight to make his
final move. If he did, he’d find no impediment to his wild, roving
hands. This time, she decided, she’d shock
him!

The conspicuous lack of lingerie made her
feel dangerously, deliciously aware of herself as a woman. She
could feel her thighs brush against each other as she walked,
creating an irresistible friction that recalled Mace’s hands toying
with the tangled wet curls. She knew from the looks in others’ eyes
that they sensed her sharpened awareness. With her blond hair
pinned high in a riot of tumbling curls, she was a vision of saucy
sophistication, carefully tailored for Blackwood’s benefit.

Except that he never made an appearance.

She waited the entire evening, wondering what
surprise he had in store. She’d prepared herself for every
conceivable situation, not the least of which was full-blown
seduction. If Blackwood could get her into bed tonight, he’d have
the ammunition he needed to stop the wedding.

But he never showed up.

Neither did the father of the groom. It was
much remarked upon, as it wasn’t like Jackson to miss such an
important evening. He was devoted to his only son and never missed
an opportunity to play the doting father. But when Winston
explained there was a crisis at the paper that his father was
helping “Archer” handle, talk turned to other matters.

Saranda spent the evening trying to
concentrate on mindless conversations as she danced with every man
present. Winston, she noted, was glowing with a rare excitement.
With everyone slapping him on the back and congratulating him, he
seemed to have swollen up like a proud peacock.

When at last he was able to claim a dance
with his bride-to-be, he seemed nearly drunk with happiness. Yet he
held her gingerly, at arm’s length, as befitted a public occasion.
His embrace felt tepid, unimaginative, after the rugged ferocity of
Blackwood’s possession. Stepping to his lead, she felt a momentary
panic. She tried to imagine Winston running his hands up her
thighs, tried to visualize his face as he discovered the bare skin,
touched the moist warmth that even now throbbed with unrequited
need.

She was marrying this man tomorrow. She might
be a confidence artist, but she believed in loyalty. Once she said
her vows, she intended to spend her life being a good and faithful
wife. It was, after all, the least she could give Winston. But
dancing with him, remembering the fierce splendor of Blackwood’s
seduction, she began to realize just what this covenant meant. To
her. To her life. She thought of the price she would be paying to
win a victory, and questioned for the first time in her life
whether it would be worth it.

“I feel,” Winston told her, cutting into her
thoughts, “like the luckiest man in the world. To have you, dearest
Sarah, for my own. It’s more than I’ve ever imagined.”

She’d have to pretend to be Sarah for the
rest of her life. Never again would anyone call her by her own
name. Never again to answer the call of her own nature, to break
free from the constraints of society.

Distractedly, she touched his cheek. “I shall
be good to you, Winston,” she vowed. “I shall make it all
worthwhile.”

His eyes, beneath his spectacles, shone like
the sea on a sunny day. “I wish my mother were alive. It would mean
so much to me to have her here. She’d like you, you know. You’re so
much like her. So good and kind. Charming, witty, lighthearted...
You’re everything I’m not and wish I could be. You’re like Archer
in a way. You both embrace life fearlessly. Yet you’ve both been so
good to Father and me. Wherever my mother is, I think she must be
very happy.”

Saranda doubted that, but his words gave her
the courage she needed. They anchored her, reminding her of her
reasons for marrying Winston. The emotional reasons, beyond her
lust for vengeance against the Blackwoods. Why, she’d marry him
anyway, even if Blackwood bowed out of the scene. His statement
reminded her of her father, and all he’d hoped for her. She
suddenly felt his presence like a warm embrace, and she knew in
that moment that she was doing the right thing. This was what her
father had wanted for her. If she’d let him down unforgivably once
before, she could make up for it by going through with this
wedding. It was the only gift she could give him. The only thing
she had left to give.

“My father would like you too, Winny,” she
told him honestly. “You’re everything he hoped I’d marry, and
more.”

Around midnight, when Blackwood still hadn’t
appeared, a servant brought Winston a note on a silver tray.

“Father wants to see us at home,” he told
Saranda. “At once.”

“That sounds ominous. What could it be?”

“Perhaps the problem at the paper is more
serious than we’d thought.”

Unbidden, Saranda felt a prickle at the back
of her neck. Intuition warned her to beware.

Jackson was in the study when they arrived.
“Winston. Sarah. Come in, please.”

He seemed like a different man. His voice
sounded weary, and he looked old. The skin on his face seemed to
hang, his blue eyes dimmed of their usual sympathetic light. The
jacket he’d been wearing had been removed and his tie opened. She’d
never seen him less than formally attired in all the months she’d
known him. Even at the dinner table, he was dressed as if going to
a ball. What had happened that would cause this change? Was it her
imagination, or was he gazing at her coldly?

She looked around, searching for clues. The
cheery fire was a sharp contrast to the mood. It roared in the
grate, illuminating the portrait of Lalita above it.

Suddenly, Saranda understood.
Jackson
knew
. She could read it in his eyes. Blackwood had done his
dirty work. But how much did they really know?

Jackson fixed her with a steady gaze. “What
can you tell us about a young woman named Saranda Sherwin?”

So Blackwood had known all along. Damn him!
Not only had he turned her in, he’d twice proved her a fool. He’d
obviously felt nothing for her, bluffing her into believing he
cared. It was clear what he’d done. He wasn’t trying to convince
her to call off the wedding, after all. He was just throwing her
off-track so he could expose her when she least expected it. But
she’d be damned if she’d give up without a fight. As dark as the
situation appeared, she refused to give up hope. Her fury made her
strong. There had to be a way to salvage this. She hadn’t worked
this hard to have it fall to pieces now.
Not because Mace
Blackwood had outwitted her!

She knew she had to think fast. Her mind
assessed the situation and weighed the options with lightning
speed. Then, in a bold move, she said the only thing she could
say.

“
I’m
Saranda Sherwin.”

“What?” cried Winston.

“Then it’s true,” Jackson stated, ignoring
his son. “You are a—confidence woman... an adventuress.”

“Father!”

Saranda touched Winston’s sleeve to silence
him. “Don’t, Winny. It’s the truth.”

Stunned, Winston fumbled behind him and
slumped into a nearby chair.

“Do you mind?” Without awaiting permission,
she went to the sideboard and poured herself a healthy dose of
brandy, which she drank in several gulps. She imagined they’d be
shocked, but what did it matter now? It gave her a moment to
compose her thoughts, to decide the best course of action.

When she turned around, they were staring at
her. “Would you care for some?”

Numbly, they shook their heads. She waved
Jackson into a seat, which he took with utter exhaustion.

“The story, if told, wants telling from the
beginning.”

The two men exchanged startled glances.
Belatedly, she realized she’d lapsed into her own English accent.
It altered her voice, giving a breezy, sophisticated quality to the
words she spoke, her enunciation as fine as that of any
duchess.

“First, as you’ve no doubt guessed, I’m not
Sarah Voors. Not the American-born daughter of an old Dutch family.
There
was
a Frederick Voors, and he died, just as I’ve told
you. Had a daughter educated in England, at that. The real Sarah
died years ago. I met her shortly before her death, which is how I
acquired the idea of using her in the first place.”

She took another sip of the brandy, smaller
this time, as she was beginning to feel its effects.