You've Got Male (13 page)

“He was an industrialist, my great-grandfather,” Avery went on as they drew nearer to the house.

Dixon probably knew more about the Nesbitt wealth than Avery did, but he let her keep talking. She needed something to occupy her mind, to keep the fear at bay.

“Great-Grandfather Nesbitt was one of those guys who made tons of money doing business,” she continued, her voice taking on a kind of singsong quality as the scotch finally kicked in. “He was right up there with Carnegie and Astor and…and…” She waved a hand airily in front of her face. “And all those other guys like that. He made huge, reeking piles of cash by taking advantage of the working man. And he wanted to make sure everyone knew it. So he built this place. And he named it. And he made sure it would always remain in the family and that it would always be inhabited by Nesbitts.” She inhaled a breath, released it and concluded in an ominous voice, “World without end. Amen, amen.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” Dixon said with much understatement.

The evening sun was dipping low behind them now, pouring a runnel of red-gold light over the massive Tudor mansion, making it glow like an amber jewel in the early twilight. Behind it, the sky had begun to purple imperiously, ennobling the place even more. The vast lawn was surprisingly hardy for November, and it billowed out before the estate in a seemingly endless wave of—well, there was no way around it—a dark grayish-green the color of currency.

“Eighteen thousand square feet,” Avery went on as if she couldn’t shift her mind to another topic besides the house. “Twenty-two acres of land. Nearly two thousand feet of frontage on the pond. Ocean views from the back of the house. Seven bedrooms, plus a two-bedroom guesthouse—that, I imagine, is where you and your little friend Gillespie will be staying, since I can’t see my mother allowing your kind in the big house.”

Dixon was pretty sure she was being sarcastic with that comment, but he decided not to ask.

“Other amenities,” she added, “include a guest suite on the first floor, a billiards room, a movie theater, a gymnasium, a wine cellar, an elevator, both indoor and outdoor pools, a lovely pool house, tennis court with viewing pavilion, greenhouse, heated four-car garage and private dock. There are also several whirlpool tubs, a centralized music system, a dozen phone lines and, it goes without saying, a state-of-the-art security system. Some of those are more recent additions to the house,” she added in an almost stagelike aside. “Though I’m sure Great-Grandfather would have had them all had they been available in his day. And I’m also sure the house has even more stuff now than it did the last time I was here. My father has always kept up with the latest technology.”

Dixon wasn’t sure what to say in response to all that. Except maybe
Holy shit.
Finally he decided on, “You sound like a real-estate agent trying to unload the place.”

She expelled a soft sound of derision. “Would that I could unload it, I’d be a happier woman.” Before he could ask what she meant—not that he didn’t already understand—she added, “Fifty million dollars. That’s how much it’s worth on today’s market.” She paused before concluding, “Prison never looked as good as it does right now.”

Dixon wheeled the car around the cobblestone circle before the house and pulled to a halt in front of Gillespie’s car. Behind it was parked an apple-red Jaguar roadster, and behind the Jag was an enormous black Mercedes. Looked like the whole family had turned out to welcome Avery home. Damn them.

He cut the ignition and climbed out, but Avery stayed rooted where she was. So he circled the car to the trunk, opened it and unloaded the three pieces of luggage within. Avery stayed rooted where she was. He slammed the trunk lid down, made two trips to carry the luggage up to the front door. Avery stayed rooted where she was. He greeted the butler who came out to help, was told that the Nesbitts and Mr. Gillespie were awaiting Mr. Dixon and Miss Avery’s arrival in the library and went back to the car. Avery stayed rooted where she was.

In fact, he didn’t think she’d moved a single body part since he’d thrown the car into park. Because she still sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her hands gripping the empty Thermos in her lap, her head turned to stare at the house, her lips parted softly, as if she’d been planning to say something but was pulled up short before the words could come.

Gingerly Dixon rapped his knuckles on the window, a gesture that made her flinch but still didn’t grab her attention. So he straightened and opened the passenger-side door, thinking that might give her a hint. Avery stayed rooted to the spot.

Great. She was doing that catatonic thing again.

Slowly he bent forward and reached across her lap to unhook her seat belt, but before he could grab it, it zipped back into its holder with a vicious snap. Avery jerked at the sound, blinking this time, and turned her head toward Dixon’s, mere inches away.

She blinked several times in rapid succession, and very quietly said, “Dixon.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said gently. “We’re home, Avery.”

She went a little pale at that but nodded. Not sure why he did it, he extended a hand toward her, palm out. To his surprise, she accepted it, settling her own palm against his. Her hand was damp and cool, but it was steady. She might be holding on by a thread, but she was holding on. He doubted he’d ever understand this agoraphobia thing, but he could tell there was something powerful going on inside her just then. He hoped someday, somehow, she learned how to deal with it.

Still holding his hand, she unfolded herself from the car and stood. She looked not at Dixon but at the house, her gaze scanning it from top to bottom, from left to right, before pinpointing the open front door. She smiled, and Dixon turned to see that the old butler was standing framed in the doorway, his dark suit flawless, his gray hair slicked back, the ghost of a smile playing about his own lips.

“Jensen,” Avery said quietly, her smile growing broader.

Still holding her hand, Dixon strode with her to the front steps and up them, halting when she did, a few feet shy of the front door.

“Miss Avery,” Jensen greeted her. With very clear affection he added, “It is so very good to have you home.”

So Avery had an ally here after all, Dixon thought. The realization made him feel better. Good to know she wasn’t entering completely hostile territory. Because even without Avery’s obvious reluctance to return to her childhood home, Dixon knew she didn’t feel welcome here. Probably that was because she
wasn’t
welcome here. Not by anyone besides the butler, at any rate.

The two of them stood looking at each other for an awkward moment, then, clumsily, as if it were an action she wasn’t used to performing, Avery leaned forward and gave Jensen a brief hug. Really brief. Like she just ricocheted her body off his and stepped back again. Jensen seemed as surprised to receive the gesture as Avery was to offer it, but he lifted a hand to pat her on the back as she embraced him—only once, though, since that was all he had time for.

“What’s the mood like in there?” Avery asked him.

“Not good,” Jensen told her. “Miss Carly is here.”

Avery’s older sister, Dixon knew. He’d read about her in the society rags when he’d been doing his research on the Nesbitt family. In fact, he’d seen almost as many items about Carly Nesbitt’s activities as he had about Avery’s trial and errors. Interestingly, Carly’s reputation in the Hamptons didn’t seem to be much better than Avery’s, if for different reasons. But where Avery’s behavior had cost businesses worldwide a gazillion dollars in lost revenues, Carly’s behavior had resulted in the voluntary forking over of a gazillion dollars from some of those same businesses to worthy causes here in the U.S. So it wasn’t that corporate America hated losing money to the Nesbitt sisters. They just wanted to be sure they had a receipt for their tax write-offs when it went.

At any rate, there seemed to be as many tongues in East Hampton wagging behind Carly’s back as there had been behind Avery’s. But where Avery had at least committed a genuine crime to cause her own bad rep, Carly’s seemed to have come about because she was notoriously bitchy. So really, who would you rather have at
your
next party?

It was a rhetorical question, naturally. Dixon didn’t want
any
of the Nesbitts at his next party.

“Your brother is here, as well,” Jensen said. “Along with his wife.”

“Jessica,” Avery said. “They’ve been married four years now, huh?”

She knew her sister-in-law’s name and the date of her brother’s wedding, even though she couldn’t have been there for any of the celebration, Dixon thought. Only then did he really start to comprehend what it must be like to be exiled from one’s family. To miss milestone events like weddings and births and graduations and funerals. To be absent from holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving.

And because of her agoraphobia, Avery couldn’t go out with friends to celebrate such things, either. Then again, from what Dixon could tell, she didn’t have any friends anyway—at least none who weren’t online. She must spend her holidays and mark her milestones alone with her cat. And she’d been doing it for eight years.

Dixon couldn’t imagine such a thing. Certainly he didn’t see as much of his family as most people did, thanks to his line of work. But he had friends and he knew he was welcome at home. He made it home for most holidays. He’d been there for his sister’s wedding and his father’s memorial service. He received cards and letters and e-mail from them on a regular basis. They talked on the phone. He was emotionally connected to all of them in a way that Avery had been denied.

What would it be like if all that disappeared? How would he feel if his family suddenly decided he was no longer entitled to share their lives? If they decided to pretend he didn’t exist?

Pretty crappy, he decided. And pretty pissed.

But Avery just seemed sad. Really, really sad. Maybe by the time ten years passed, sadness was all that was left. But she’d still kept tabs on them, if she knew her sister-in-law’s name and how long her brother had been married and the current market value of her parents’ home. Interesting, that.

“How are Mother and Father?” she asked Jensen.

The butler smiled a little sadly himself. “Come and see for yourself,” he told her.

Inhaling a deep breath, Avery nodded, then turned to look at Dixon. “I’m ready,” she told him.

Well, Dixon thought, that made one of them.

N
OTHING HAD CHANGED
.

As Avery walked through the house where she had lived for the first seventeen years of her life—and from which she had been exiled for the last ten—she realized it looked exactly as she had left it. A creamy-yellow foyer bled into a long marigold hall that bisected the house into north and south wings. The hardwood floor was buffed to a honeyed sheen, and a massive flowered Aubusson spanned the bulk of it. To the right, a sweeping staircase curved up to the second-floor gallery, and to the left, the parlor was awash with varying shades of green. Her mother had always thought rooms should be identified by their colors instead of their functions, so no two in the big house were the same.

As Avery strode through the house with Dixon following, she glanced into each room they passed and was hit by one memory after another. The music room, lush in its random bits of blue, where she and Carly and Desi had learned to play piano from Mr. Willis. The mahogany-paneled living room, which glowed during the day with its floor-to-ceiling windows, its chocolate-colored leather sofa and chairs now bathed in the mellow amber of lamplight. The bloodred formal dining room with its huge Mediterranean-style table and chairs, where her parents had entertained like a feudal lord and lady. On holidays and during parties, the house had come alive.

It felt so strange to be here. Avery had had such a love-hate relationship with Cobble Court. She had reveled in its sumptuous elegance, had marveled at its breathtaking beauty. As a child, she had thought herself incredibly fortunate to call the house home. But as she’d grown up and learned more about the world, when she had discovered how so many other people were forced to live with so little, how many people had terrible homes or no homes at all, she’d begun to feel guilty living here.

Fifty million dollars, she thought again as she drew nearer the library where her family—such as it was—awaited her arrival. How many decent homes could that much money buy for decent people who deserved decent housing? Hundreds, easily. Although her father had never discussed his wealth with his children—he probably didn’t even discuss it with his wife—Avery knew what her family was worth. Desmond Nesbitt could give away billions of dollars and still be a billionaire. But he held on to every last penny.

Of course, Avery was worth millions herself. And not just from her trust fund, but from the security business she ran from her home. But she did share her wealth, was a regular contributor to several worthy causes. She knew her father’s company, if not the man himself, donated charitably. But it was more for the tax break than it was philanthropy. And she knew, too, that her sister Carly volunteered to raise millions more. Somehow, though, the balance still seemed weighted much too heavily in the Nesbitts’ favor.

In spite of her ambivalence about her childhood home, Avery had assumed Cobble Court would always
be
her home. Maybe not as it was for Carly, who continued to live here as an adult—Avery had always planned to have her own place after she graduated from college. But she’d figured she would return for special occasions or when she needed to retreat to the familiar. She had counted on the house being here for her no matter what. It had been comforting to know that if life threw her a curve she couldn’t handle, she’d have a place to call home. Always.

But now she was a guest here. Less than a guest, really. Guests were invited. Avery hadn’t been. So really she was just a visitor here. And an unwelcome visitor at that.

That was made even clearer as she made her way deeper into the house, because she saw that there was indeed something that had changed in her absence. On the walls and tables where her mother displayed framed photographs of the family, all the ones that had included Avery were gone. Her school pictures. The vacation photos of the family. The portraits of the three Nesbitt children. Something cold and sharp twisted inside her to realize it.

The library loomed immediately ahead, and Avery halted abruptly before reaching it. So abruptly that Dixon, who had been bringing up the rear, walked right into her. She stumbled forward until he reached out and caught her, pulling her back toward himself. But he overcompensated—or maybe Avery was the one to overcompensate—and she tripped backward, falling against him. Hard.

Instead of jerking away from him, though, something kept her pinned to the spot. Something other than Dixon’s hands cupped gently over her shoulders, she meant. Her reluctance to enter the library, she told herself. Her unwillingness to see the family who’d turned its back on her. Anything would be better than that. Even being plastered against Dixon.

Because she was plastered against Dixon. And neither of them was doing anything about it. She felt the press of him from her shoulders to her calves, was more aware of the heat in his big body than her own. She waited for the fear that should have come at being so close to him, braced herself for the inescapable panic, waited for the mental mantra that would keep her calm. But none of those things happened. Instead she heard herself say the strangest thing.

“Dixon, please don’t leave me.”

The fingers he had cupped over her shoulders skimmed downward, wrapping gently around her upper arms. “I won’t,” he said. And there was something in his voice that hadn’t been there before, something she told herself she needed to identify, something that was gone before she had the chance.

“Do you promise?” she asked softly.

He hesitated not at all before assuring her, “I promise.”

She inhaled a deep breath and stepped forward, the action moving her away from Dixon and causing her a moment of panic. But only a moment. Knowing he was behind her, she felt more secure in what she was doing. Kind of. Sort of. In a way.

I have nothing to fear in this moment,
she thought as she took another step forward.
In this moment, there is nothing to fear….

W
HY HAD SHE ASKED HIM THAT
? Dixon wondered as he followed Avery into the library. Hell, she knew he wasn’t going anywhere until this assignment was over. And she’d made it clear she was in no way happy about that. So why suddenly did she ask him not to leave her? And why had she said it the way she had, all soft and quiet and fearful? He didn’t have time to think more about it, though, because Avery halted at the library entrance, bringing him to a stop, too.

The library was furnished like the rest of the house, in Early Ostentation. But where the other rooms he’d seen had been color-coded, there was a mix of hues here.

The ceiling and walls were paneled in burled walnut, and the furnishings were leather, the color of ruby port, reinforced with shiny brass tacks. A large fireplace spanned much of the left-hand wall, its mantelpiece crowded by candlesticks, vases and a massive antique clock. The hardwood floors shone with a high gloss, obscured here and there by a scattering of jewel-toned Persian rugs in different but complementary patterns. The far wall consisted of beveled floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the expansive back lawn and the pond beyond. With the trees bare, there was a scant glimpse of the ocean in the distance, though during the greener months it would be obscured. From one of the upper floors the view was probably spectacular.

The rest of the library walls were shelves housing all manner of books. Old Man Nesbitt must be a serious collector. Around the perimeter of the room, about a foot below the ceiling, was a metal rod with a ladder attached on coasters. For some reason, the moment Dixon saw it, a vision erupted in his brain of Avery as a child, hanging from that ladder as she pushed it all the way around the room, long pigtails flying, peals of laughter ringing…until someone—her mother, probably—discovered her and put an end to the play.

As he concluded his inspection of the room, Dixon’s gaze fell on Cowboy, who stood in the farthest corner, both hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He looked very unhappy. Unless compared to everyone else in the room, in which case he looked downright jolly. A woman stood in the corner opposite Cowboy, and Dixon pegged her as the younger Desmond Nesbitt’s wife. Everyone else was parked in the sitting area closest to the entry, as if they were huddling together against a storm that lashed the house outside.

Dixon considered each in turn, testing himself on his knowledge as he went. Might as well start at the top of the Nesbitt pecking order, with the big cock himself—Desmond Nesbitt IV. Upholding the tradition of the big Nesbitt cocks before him, he headed up the multinational, multibillion-dollar Nesbitt Corporation. Desmonds I, II and III had been known in their respective times as industrialists. Desmond IV, however, called a spade a spade—he ID’d himself as a bona fide capitalist and he didn’t let anyone forget it. His personal wealth was estimated at nearly six billion dollars. Throw in the corporate assets, and he was one of the ten wealthiest men in America.

This evening he looked every inch the financial despot relaxing at home. At sixty-eight, he was a strikingly handsome man, with the same piercing blue eyes characteristic of all the Nesbitts and a full head of silver-white hair. He was dressed in coffee-brown corduroys, a white dress shirt sans tie and a cardigan sweater the color of a polo field.

Mrs. Desmond Nesbitt IV, née Felicia Hurstbourne, sat beside him, looking every inch the part she played in life—East Hampton Czarina. Although she was five years younger than her husband, she looked older. Her eyes were a duller blue than the rest of the family’s—but her hair was as black as her children’s, without a trace of gray, leading Dixon to conclude it was colored. It was bobbed at chin length, but she wore it swept back from her face with a tidy leather headband. Like her husband, she looked anything but relaxed relaxing in her home, wearing baggy cream-colored slacks—Dixon hesitated to call them trousers or even pants—and a matching turtleneck, cashmere, he was sure. Plain gold hoops were fastened in her ears, and the hands folded on her lap were surprisingly unadorned, save the massive wedding set that glittered almost blindly on her left hand.

On the love seat, seated far enough apart that it was clear there was no love lost between them, sat Avery’s sister and brother, Carly and Desmond V, Desi to most, to avoid confusing him with his father. Carly looked like a tastefully dressed Elvira—if one could consider tasteful skintight leather and low-cut tops. Which Elvira probably would. Desi was a younger version of his father, only with dark hair, right down to the corduroys and cardigan—in his case, though, the cords were the color of a polo field and the sweater was chocolate-brown. His wife, still standing in the corner busily checking titles, had short blond hair, and she wore a straight charcoal skirt and black sweater.

Not the most colorful bunch in the world, Dixon thought, Carly Nesbitt’s red leather miniskirt notwithstanding. And interesting how the immediate family had all gathered together while the outsiders had exiled themselves to opposite corners. He understood, though. The Nesbitts had that effect on people.

Avery took a few steps forward, surprising Dixon when she reached for his hand. He let her take it and followed, widening his stride to catch up with her. She moved slowly but steadily toward the sofa and love seat grouping, eyeing each member of her family in turn. But none of the other Nesbitts looked at her.

Who would speak first? Dixon wondered. Who would throw down that gauntlet? The suspense was killing him….

“’Bout time you arrived,” Cowboy said.

Of course. It
would
be the new guy putting his foot in it first.

Cowboy pushed himself away from the wall he’d been holding up and made his way toward Dixon and Avery. His expression indicated he’d been expecting them a
long
time ago. “Shall I make the introductions?” he continued, his voice edged with irritation. “I mean, the Nesbitts and I go
way
back. Almost two hours, in fact.” He threw a leering look toward the love seat as he added, “And me and Carly have been together even longer than that.”

“Mr. Gillespie and I are
not
together,” Carly stated coolly.

Though who she was speaking to was a mystery, since she was gazing straight ahead at no one when she spoke. Still, Dixon figured chances were good that she
wasn’t
speaking to her kid sister. Which currently made the Nesbitts zero for four in that regard. Five if you counted the Nesbitt by marriage. Call him crazy, but the odds weren’t looking good for a happy reunion.

“I’ll make the introductions.”

Interestingly, it was the black sheep herself who bleated the offer, another surprise for Dixon. But where Avery’s tone was quiet and even when she spoke, the hand gripping his convulsed. She extended her free hand, palm up, toward the sofa. It was trembling, Dixon saw.

“Dixon,” she said softly, faltering a little on the word, “this is Desmond Nesbitt and his wife Felicia.” She swung her hand toward the love seat, and he noticed it was trembling even more. “And this is Carly Nesbitt and her brother Desi.” She dropped her hand back to her side and curled the fingers into a tight fist. “Desi will have to introduce his wife, I’m afraid, since I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her.”

Wow,
Dixon thought. That had been really polite. Evidently Avery had kept up with her Emily Post during ten years of exile from polite society. Of course, it didn’t escape his notice that Avery had assigned no descriptive tags to anyone in her family that might identify them as members of her family. Nor did it escape his notice that no one in the family had jumped up to take exception to that. In fact, no one in the family spoke at all. They didn’t even turn to look in her direction.