Banish Misfortune (2 page)

Maren was away at college, and there were only the two of them. For a while things were more peaceful. Daddy wasn't drinking, and Mother, though lost in a chronic depression, seemed to have controlled her rages. Maren still bore the scar from one of those rages—the time their mother had smashed all the china, a large shard flying across the room and embedding itself in Maren's right leg.

And Jessica allowed herself to breathe a tiny sigh of relief. Until the afternoon when she came home from school and found her father passed out on the sofa, and Uncle Bob Lemming waiting for her, his reddened face wreathed in a smile, the look that she had come to expect and dread in his bloodshot eyes, the smell of Scotch on his breath.

Springer MacDowell
slid his long, long legs back down into the cramped confines of his 1963 Lotus Eu-ropa and started the engine, listening to the instant purr with a distant satisfaction. Satisfaction with his car, but not his life. Why was he doing this again? Why did he let himself in for the complete, unutterable weariness of driving cross-country every year, and for what? For the dubious pleasure of seeing the old man who by some accident had fathered him and then betrayed him, that twenty-year-old betrayal still raw in Springer's soul. Returning to New York every summer only brought back all the pain and doubt and anger that he usually managed to squash down, and even the presence of his mother couldn't prevent it all from spilling over. So why did he come?

The western Pennsylvania highway stretched out in front of him, heat shimmering from the pavement, the lush greenery passing in a blur. His eyes were trained on the road with single-minded concentration, a concentration necessary after three days on the road with only the bare minimum of stops. He knew that if he took his time he might never make it to New York, might turn around and head back to the West Coast, and to hell with his father. But he'd promised his mother, promised Elyssa that he'd try one more time to heal the broken ties with his bastard of a father. And too many people had broken their promises to her—he wasn't going to be another one, even if it killed him.

And it wouldn't. He'd seen his father too many times in the past twenty years; he knew full well he could deal with it, even managing to be pleasant if the situation called for it. But Hamilton MacDowell wasn't fooled. He knew his son hated him, he knew why, and there was absolutely nothing he could or would do about it. Except stumble through Elyssa's periodic attempts at reconciliation with the same miserable grace that Springer mustered. And doubtless breathe the same sigh of relief that Springer did when they finally were released from each other's onerous presence.

Releasing some of the pressure from the accelerator, Springer stretched the long legs that had given him the nickname that still clung to him. John Springer MacDowell, king of the Princeton basketball court, second only to Bill Bradley in the college's history, Springer MacDowell of the mile-long arms and legs and the devastating hook shot that had made more than one professional recruiter drool and then weep, as Springer calmly and resolutely turned his back on their lucrative offers. Hamilton had been too proud of his son, too eager for Springer to succeed. Once aware of his father's belated paternal pride, Springer had done the only thing he could think of to punish the old man. He'd enlisted in the marines with the express purpose of going to Vietnam and rubbing the liberal old man's nose in it.

But that, too, had backfired. It wasn't Hamilton MacDowell who suffered from the deprivation, the soulless, violent agony that was war. It was Springer, who since his father's betrayal had done everything he could to squash down any signs of sensitivity, Springer who had to deal with the soul-destroying despair warfare brings. And still had to deal with it.

Reaching up one large, well-shaped hand, he pushed the mirrored sunglasses up to rub the bridge of his nose. It was a definitive nose, not quite Hamilton's imposing beak, but a determined, hawklike blade nonetheless, giving his face a brutal look not tempered by the high cheekbones, deep-brown—almost black-eyes and thick straight, silky black hair. His mother had likened him to an Indian, knowing full well he got his spectacular looks from her, not the father who had bequeathed him the bladelike nose and a legacy of pain and hatred.

Women had always responded to those looks, to Springer's immensely tall, wiry body, the distant, beautiful face and those dark, unfathomable, lost eyes. And Springer had always taken advantage of that response, taking what was offered with pleasure and irresponsibility and a complete disregard for commitment. Even his brief marriage hadn't curtailed his amatory activities.

Only a reluctant maturity had done that, so that now, at age thirty-five, he'd gone for the longest period of celibacy since the discovery of his father's betrayal. It had been five months since he'd slept with a woman, and he was in no mood to remedy that situation. He was mortally tired of faceless bodies, of casual sex, of the ritual mating dance that ended before it even began, ended in a tangle of sheets and limbs and performances. Maybe he was more like his father than he wanted to believe.

He'd promised Elyssa he'd stay for a month. Already the time loomed ahead like a prison sentence. He wouldn't get in till well past midnight—that would kill one day. Only twenty-nine after that. His strong, tanned hands clenched around the leather-covered steering wheel, and once more the large foot in the well-worn Nikes pressed down on the accelerator. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could be gone. And the Lotus sped along the Pennsylvania highway like an arrow, straight and true to the heart.

Only a trace
of redness marred the cool blue beauty of Jessica's eyes as she slid once more behind the empty desk and waited, waited for God knows what.
It must simply be stress,
she told herself firmly. Understandable stress, caused by the upcoming merger that depended so much on her initiative and her ability to charm X. Rickford Lincoln during the upcoming weekend. Not to mention the changes her expected success would wreak in her life. The vice-presidency was everything she had worked for, everything she had longed for. Peter Kinsey, charming, passive, clever, would propose marriage. It would be a good match for her, a sensible, advantageous mating of brains and blue blood and ruthless ambitions. They would both supply the brains—her determination would more than make up for her Scandinavian blood, which wasn't quite WASP-ish enough. In the past few months Peter had been devoted, charming and diffident enough to allow her to keep the relationship on a platonic level. But once the merger went through, the engagement formalized, she'd have no more excuses. None that he would believe, anyway.

It was going to be a busy weekend, no doubt of that, and she'd have felt a lot better able to face it if she'd had more than a few hours of sleep every night during the past week, if she'd managed to eat more than a mouthful or two at her irregular meals. Rickford Lincoln was a recently divorced man in his late sixties, a big, powerful bull of a man eager to celebrate his new freedom. And Jessica had the distinctly uneasy impression that he wanted to celebrate that freedom with her. What had started out as sly glances and lubricious looks during the early part of the negotiations several months ago had quickly graduated to semiserious propositions, seemingly innocent touches that always managed to graze her flat buttocks or the gentle swell of her breasts. And Jessica had used that attraction, played with it with masterly cleverness, stringing him along to the point of agreeing to the merger with no more than a promising smile, just the right amount of reluctance in moving out of the way of his damp, clutching fingers, and the hint of wonders to come in her cool blue eyes.

It had worked, as it had worked so often in the past during her climb up the corporate ladder. A smile here, a word there, always stopping just short of cementing it with an affair. Not that anyone had realized she did stop there—she had the reputation of being a cool customer, ready to sleep her way discreetly to the top. So far she had managed to avoid it with practiced skill, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could do so.

Her priorities were clear, and sooner or later she'd have to pay the price. Her ambitions and talents had stood her in good stead, leading her to Jasper Kinsey's table, Peter Kinsey's side, a vice-presidency in Kinsey Enterprises, Inc., and a future as part of that wealthy, safe family. And if that future included trading her body for Peter's practiced caresses, then it could have been far worse. He was never rough, never inconsiderate in their restrained petting, and she was very skilled In simulating responses that left him convinced she would be a mass of passion when they finally made love, and that he would be capable of satisfying her as no man had ever had. And in a way, he would. She loved the holding part of sex, the gentle stroking that preceded and followed the act, the feeling of safety cradled in his arms. If her limited experience in making love had left her cold and removed, she knew well enough how to disguise that fact, could always disguise that fact with her actress's ability.

Or at least she had been up till now. Her one experience a few years earlier had been unpleasant and undignified, but her partner, a self-satisfied lawyer named Philip Mercer, had been convinced of his prowess. She could convince Peter just as easily. But X. Rickford Lincoln might prove to be a different matter.

"Jessica, are you in there?" Jasper Kinsey's bluff tones were unmistakable, and for a brief, mad moment Jessica considered diving under the desk. Jilly was long gone, no longer able to run interference for her, and Peter must have failed in his bid to distract his father's attention.

Quickly she ran a nervous hand across her dry face. Just what she needed—a confrontation with old Jasper's far-too-observant eyes.

Of course she had no time to duck. She dropped her hand, raised her head and presented her cool, Snow Queen smile to her future father-in-law and current boss as he strode into her office.

"There you are, Jessica," he said in an accusing voice. "Peter was trying to tell me some nonsense about you being tied up. This is an important weekend; I don't need to tell you that."

"No, Jasper, you don't need to tell me that," she said evenly. "I'll be coming out to the Hamptons tomorrow morning, definitely before noon. I have a few things to clear up "

"Rick Lincoln is coming out tonight."

A small shiver of distaste ran across her backbone, but her face was impassive as always. "I know, Jasper. And he'll be there for the entire weekend. I'm sure I won't be missed for the first night."

"I wouldn't be sure of any such thing, Jessica. You've handled this merger very nicely, very nicely indeed. Lincoln is ready to be landed like a fish on a line, and we need to be certain you don't let him wriggle off."

Jasper gave her what passed for a benevolent smile, but Jessica wasn't fooled, even for a moment. No one had said a word, not even the slightest hint had escaped that anything more than corporate wheeling and dealing was expected of her. But somehow, somewhere she had gotten the uneasy feeling that she was the sacrificial lamb to be offered to Lincoln's aging libido, with Jasper and Peter Kinsey the benevolent bystanders. And the idea was destroying her almost nonexistent appetite, robbing her of her sleep, and stringing her nerves out until she was ready to scream.

But damn it, it wasn't their decision. It was her body, it had always been her choice how she used it. And it still would be. She wasn't going out to the Hamptons until she decided how she was going to handle things if push came to shove. After all, what did one night mean when balanced with millions of dollars' profit, security and power for the rest of her life? She was more than adept at turning her mind into a peaceful blank when the situation called for it.

"I know what's expected of me, Jasper," she said in the cool, tranquil voice that was one of her greatest assets, not sure of any such thing. "And you can trust me to handle this. Have I ever let you down?"

"No." He granted her that. "But what the hell's keeping you from coming out to the house tonight?"

Jessica's thin fingers clenched around the paperback book, and sudden inspiration struck. "I promised lilyssa I'd see her," she improvised quickly, always a nifted liar when the situation called for it. "Of course, I can always call her and cancel
…
"

Jasper Kinsey had two ambitions in life. One, to found a financial empire beyond his most avaricious dreams. The realization of that ambition was tantamount to impossible, given the scope of his greedy fantasies, and his second goal was just as farfetched. He wanted to marry Elyssa MacDowell, a woman he'd coveted for almost thirty years. He was no closer to her bed than he had been when he first met her, when she was the child-bride of Hamilton MacDowell, but he never gave up hope. His almost doglike devotion hadn't interfered with his voracious sex life, but Elyssa was still a weak point in Jasper Kinsey's stalwart defenses.

"No, no." It was an immediate about-face. "You go see Elyssa. But be with us in time for lunch, Jessica. I'm going to have a hard enough time making excuses to Lincoln about tonight."

"Have Peter make them for me," she suggested.

Jasper gave her a sharp, suspicious look, but she merely continued her distant composure. "I'll do that," he said finally. "By eleven tomorrow, Jessica. I'm depending on you."

"You know that you can."