Banish Misfortune (5 page)

usher her out of the room she would kick him, and this time she wouldn't miss. But he didn't touch her, just waited patiently, and she had no choice but to precede him out of the kitchen,

"You like David?" she questioned on her way out the front door.

"What I've seen of him, yes. Don't you?"

"No," she said. And wondered why, for the first time in weeks, she was hungry.

He drove fast
, and well, most of his attention on the crowded highway around him, only a small portion of his mind tuned to the tense, thin figure of the woman sitting beside him, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the loose-fitting linen suit. He wondered what devil had made him call Peter Kinsey that morning and cadge an invitation. He could tell himself that he was grabbing at any excuse to escape his father's town house, but he knew better. And it wasn't Peter Kin-sey's undemanding charm that drew him, or the thought of a few days on the ocean. He lived on the ocean, in sight of the crashing Pacific, and the tame New York shoreline of the Atlantic held no great charm for him.

But he knew what had made him call Peter Kinsey; he just wasn't quite sure why. It was the cool, composed Ice Princess sitting beside him who had teased him, tickled him, edged him into an uncharacteristic whim. And he didn't even like her, or anything about her. He had had his share of cold, overly ambitious women, with no heart or soul, just a driven need for power. He didn't need another one. He told himself last winter that he was tired of athletic performances and no emotion. For thirty-five years he had avoided commitment like the plague. Whether he deserved it or not, he wasn't about to turn around and get involved with a woman just as incapable of it.

Besides, she'd already committed herself to Peter Kinsey. His mouth curved in a mocking smile. She certainly had her priorities straight.

"What's so funny?" she demanded testily. His smile broadened. She'd been more aware of him than she'd been pretending, which suited him just fine. It might provide an entertaining diversion to see just how uptight Miss Jessica Hansen who didn't like nicknames was. Could he get beneath the frosty exterior, make her chilly eyes warm with wanting? Could he have her, writhing and twisting beneath him, above him, warm and pliant and loving? Somehow he doubted even Peter Kinsey saw her that way. He never could resist a challenge, and she definitely was one, with her icy demeanor and long, lean limbs. He did like a tall woman.

"Funny?" he echoed finally, contemplating what would get the fastest reaction from her. "I was just wondering how long it was going to take me to get you in bed." He waited for her reaction to his opening salvo.

It took him completely by surprise. Her eyes widened in momentary shock, then drooped seductively. She put one slender hand on his forearm, the manicured fingertips lightly kneading the skin with just the right amount of pressure. Not too light, not too hard— it was completely sensual and made him think suddenly of how that expert touch would feel on other, more sensitive parts of his body. He'd obviously underestimated her sexual capabilities. She leaned forward, her face very close to his, and he could smell the coffee on her breath, warm and sweet and almost unbearably enticing. Her lips were close to his, so that they almost grazed him, and her voice was soft, breathless and low. "It'll be a cold day in hell," she murmured.

Jessica pulled back into her seat, a satisfied smirk adorning her pale face. Obviously she thought she had put him in his place. He quickly disabused her of the notion. "That's quite good, you know," he remarked in a conversational tone. "Just the right amount of come-hither. Is that how you made it to vice-president in such a short time? By being the ultimate tease?"

If he didn't know better he would have thought that was an unbidden pain that clouded her clear blue eyes. "Of course," she said in a brittle voice. "Except that I usually deliver."

For some reason he didn't believe her. And then he cursed himself for being a romantic fool. Jessica Hansen fascinated him, as she doubtless meant to. It had to be part of her power, like a black widow spider's. She'd probably slept with everyone from the stockboy on up, and he had lost his taste for shopworn relationships, hadn't he? Casting a furutive glance at her self-contained profile, he was no longer so sure.

"Do you want to stop for something to eat?" he said suddenly, wanting to get away from the car, wanting to sit across from her at a table and talk like rational human beings, not unexpected enemies. He could see her hesitate for a moment, then shake her head resolutely. "Anorexia isn't in anymore," he added as a little jab.

It bounced off. "It was your decision to forgo breakfast," she said serenely. "You'll just have to wait till we get to the Kinseys. I'm sure there'll be mountains of food to keep you occupied."

"I can think of better ways to keep occupied," he drawled. "Do you think there'll be any unattached women around, or will I have to share you with Peter?"

Strangely enough, she took his question seriously. "There'll be other women. You'll be able to take your pick."

Springer couldn't help himself, and afterward he wondered why he said it. And meant it. "I pick you, then."

She shut her eyes in sudden pain. "Stop it, Springer," she said wearily, and he liked the sound of his name on her pale mouth. "Stop playing with me and stop watching me."

His eyes moved from her set face, dropping to the hands curved palm upward—loose, for a change—in her lap. And he saw the scars across her wrists, old and faded, but inexorably there. They must have been deep once, long ago. And then he raised his eyes to meet her stricken ones, and she slowly turned her hands palm downward on her lap.

He didn't even hesitate. All teasing had vanished, and he moved his hand from the steering wheel and placed it over one of her still ones. His hand was large, strong and warm, and it enveloped hers. He waited for her to pull away, but she made no move. Keeping her face averted, she leaned back against the worn leather seat and closed her weary eyes. Leaving her hand in his warm, oddly comforting grip.

When Jessica had come home
that afternoon her sister Sunny was at track practice and wasn't due back till six. Her mother was working, volunteer work at the hospital. She worked there every Tuesday, as Uncle Bob knew. Jessica had stood there inside the door, staring at her father's comatose figure, the heavy snores that should have been comical wafting through the room, her eyes filled with panic as Uncle Bob had loomed over her.

They hadn't believed her, of course. Her father had slapped her face and called her a tramp. Her mother had looked her up and down with that cool, disapproving look she had perfected long ago and smiled a disbelieving smile. And Sunny had continued to run, shutting herself away from the family hysteria. And everyone apologized to Uncle Ben, who'd looked abashed and said that's all right, he understood. Jessica was prone to fantasy and exaggeration.

That was the first time she'd slashed her wrists.

Jessica kept her eyes on the expressway, away from Springer, letting her hand rest in his strong soothing hold. She was remembering far too much, far too often, and the man beside her only made those memories more painful. She ought to pull away from him, withdraw farther in the narrow confines of the small foreign car. But she knew she wasn't going to. And she knew she was making a mistake. Springer MacDowell was only going to add to the unbearable burdens weighing her down. With a sigh she leaned back, closing her eyes. And left her hand in his.

Chapter Five

Eight hours later Jessica surveyed her reflection in the mirror, looking for signs of strain beneath the iron control. Her lips were a luscious dusky red, her ice-blue eyes large and cool and luminous, her wheat-blond hair a neat cap to her delicate skull. It would have taken someone with uncommon perception to see past the coolly amused half smile, the impression of wealth and control the clinging black Halston sheath presented. She doubted that anyone milling around the Kinsey living room would be perceptive enough, or sober enough, to see more than what he or she wanted to see.

Except for Springer. And she refused to grant him that perception. He was a stud, on the make for whatever was available, and right now she was a challenge. So what if Elyssa thought he'd given up his absorption with quantity, not quality. Jessica could hardly count herself as suddenly irresistible. She knew as well as he did that she was definitely not his type. His animosity was clear, as was the kindling light of desire that brightened those dark, fathomless eyes of his. And that light made her very, very nervous.

She had been unconscionably stupid to let him take her hand like that. She should have pulled away with a light joke and a condescending laugh. But she hadn't. She had sat in his tiny, cramped car, staring out at the traffic, and let him hold her hand in that way. And in doing so, she had let him in closer than anyone had been in years. Never had she felt so open, so exposed, so vulnerable. It had been a much more intimate act than sex, and her guilt and dismay was far greater than if he had pulled off the expressway and taken her to a motel.

So much for common sense, she told herself, shrugging her shoulders. Perhaps the Halston wasn't the right choice, she thought belatedly. Not with her current weight. Her shoulders looked just a tiny bit too bony beneath the halter top, and interested onlookers could probably count her ribs above the backless dress. Maybe that would be enough to drive away Springer MacDowell and X. Rickford Lincoln, leaving her to the undemanding comfort of Peter Kinsey.

The noise of the cocktail party filtered through the open terrace windows of her bedroom. Just a small party, Jasper had assured her on their arrival. No more than fifty of their closest, most important friends. And she wouldn't even have to act as hostess. Jasper's current inamorata, an elegant but spectacularly talentless actress, would do the honors.

Jessica had smiled, keeping her eyes averted from a steadily amused Springer. She had understood the politics of it well enough. Rickford Lincoln needed to be reminded that the Kinseys had wealthy and powerful friends, that they could entertain with not the slightest concern that the all-important merger would go through. Image was everything, and the Kinseys were adept at preserving that image. Was it only her imagination that her own had begun to crack a bit around the edges?

She had put off making her reappearance for as long as she could. She'd given them time enough. By now Springer would probably be off on the long stretch of private beach with one of the neighbor's wives, and if fate was extraordinarily kind, so would Rickford Lincoln. Somewhere in the long quiet of the afternoon, when a nap eluded her, she had come to her decision. She would do what had to be done. She could only hope that luck would keep Lincoln far away, at least until she got a decent night's sleep and could cope with him.

Luck wasn't with her. Heading down the almost deserted hallway, Jessica recognized his burly figure coming toward her. She contemplated wheeling around and heading back in the opposite direction, then chided herself for her cowardice. She had told Springer MacDowell she was tough enough—now was her chance to prove it.

"There you are, Jessica," Lincoln boomed, moving in on her. "I wondered where you'd gotten to."

Forcing herself to look at him objectively, she had to admit that he wasn't a bad-looking man. The years sat well on him, with his crowning mane of silver hair, the bushy gray eyebrows, the big, husky body that couldn't be called fat. He exuded an aura of power that should have a powerful aphrodisiac to any right-thinking young executive on the rise. She gave him that distant smile that held faint, unmistakable promises, the smile she had perfected years ago and that had kept Rickford Lincoln malleable over the bargaining table.

He moved closer then, pressing against her slender body. He was a man who invaded other people's space, pressing against them, all the while smiling affably. He did it to intimidate people, and it usually worked quite well. Jessica's cool smile didn't waver, her feet didn't falter, and she stood her ground. "I wondered if you were trying to avoid me, Jessica," he continued plaintively.

She raised an eyebrow artfully. "Paranoid, Mr. Lincoln? If I wanted to avoid you, I wouldn't have come. This weekend was planned for your benefit." He had been drinking Scotch, she noticed with an inward shudder of distaste. She hated Scotch drinkers.

"But you weren't here last night," he reminded her with a trace of petulance in his voice. A petulance just slightly laced with threat.

"I'm here tonight."

He pressed closer then, his belly leaning into her slender frame, and one big hand caught her unresisting one. "So you are, Jessica," he said lightly, meaningfully, "I need to talk with you."

"Of course."

"About the merger. The contracts... There are several points that I think could use some more discussion."

Here it comes,
she thought, dropping her eyes for a moment to see his hand fondling hers in what he doubtless thought was a sensuous gesture. His hands were old, puffy, with silver hair sprinkled across the backs of his fingers. She raised her eyes back up to his and summoned her limpid smile.

"I'm at your disposal."

His smile broadened. "After the party. I think my room is the best choice—that way we're unlikely to be disturbed."

She nodded, feeling curiously numb. Why should it matter? It wasn't as if she was a virgin—surely she could trade one night for a secure and powerful future. Why was she balking? It was nothing more than her smiles and her subtle flattery had promised for the past three months. "I don't think I'll have any trouble getting away from Peter..." she began, experienced enough to leave herself an escape hatch.

"No, I don't think you will," Lincoln said smugly. "He knows how important this merger is."

Jessica looked up sharply. The threat was out in the open then, and she didn't like it. She needed the polite veneer that it was still her choice. "I'll speak to him," she said coolly, putting Lincoln in his place.

"You do that. But I don't think you'll hear any objections to a late-night bargaining session." One of his heavy hands reached behind her head then, holding her still as his face descended. His lips were thick, wet and demanding on her cold, unresponsive ones. She stood still for the assault, not moving, and a moment later he pulled back.

"You're a cool one, aren't you?" he queried, not the slightest bit discouraged.

"I don't like being pawed in hallways," she replied, unmoved.

Lincoln laughed, moving away. "Sounds like you need a little discipline, Jessica. And I'm the man to do it. My room, no later than one o'clock. I'll have some Scotch waiting."