Dangerous Ladies (50 page)

Benjamin gladly turned his reeking frustration on Devlin. “We’re all surprised, Devlin, that you’ve married at last.”

“Thirty-two is hardly a great age, sir. After all, I believe you were as old when you took your first wife.” Devlin was pointed in his comment.

The other old men moved uneasily. The story of Isabelle and her infidelity always made them uncomfortable, recalling their own marital misadventures and the possibility—slight, in their minds, but always there—that not every female knew her place.

“Now, see, there’s the difference between Devlin and me. He married me because I’m a child of freethinkers.” Meadow grinned cockily. “I married him for his money.”

The old farts sputtered with shocked laughter.

“And his good looks.” Turning around, she looked mischievously into Devlin’s eyes as she pinched his cheek.

All he had to do was sight down the barrel and squeeze the trigger. Too bad the damned weapon had a mind of her own.

And why in the hell did he enjoy having her make fun of him in front of the assemblage of old farts? If he wasn’t careful, she would make him liked in this town.

“What did you say, young lady, when you discovered your husband was a bastard?” Benjamin baldly asked the question, clearly hoping to catch Meadow by surprise, maybe tell her something Devlin hadn’t had the nerve to tell her.

“Oh, Father.” Four covered his eyes with his slender, uncallused hand.

“Good shot,” Osgood said.

It wasn’t lack of nerve that had kept Devlin from informing her, but lack of time—they’d met only last night, and he seldom spoke of his fatherless state, certainly not within twenty-four hours of meeting a woman.

“What? Oh, I suppose he wants me to call him illegitimate.” Benjamin challenged Devlin with his curling lip. “But I believe in calling a spade a spade.”

Devlin waited, as curious about Meadow’s reaction as the rest of the group.

“There’s no excuse to call it a bloody damned shovel, at least not in polite society.” Meadow’s tone could have frozen pipes in August. “Perhaps when you wish to be rude, Mr. Benjamin, you should stick with calling me brash and hope I don’t catch the slight.”

Benjamin’s gaze flew to hers, then dropped beneath the lash of her contempt.

“Brava!” Four clapped his hands softly. His eyes lit up, and he visibly admired Meadow.

Devlin schooled his face to impassivity, but marveled at Meadow’s defense of him. He marveled, too, at how well Meadow read these men and used their weaknesses to manipulate them. She held her own formidable weapon—and Devlin needed to remember she held it.

“To answer your question, Mr. Benjamin, I have no interest in Devlin’s parents except in the way they influenced his upbringing. It’s the man himself who fascinates me.” She turned her head toward Devlin and smiled. “I can hardly fault his charisma, his charm, or his kindness.”

Either she was a better actress than she claimed, or she believed what she said—and Devlin didn’t know which idea disturbed him more.

Benjamin recognized defeat when it stared him in the face, so he quit that battle and took up another. “So, young Devlin, what have you done with my house?”

“In three weeks, the Secret Garden will be an accredited five-star small hotel and receive its guests,” Devlin said.

“Yet I hear you’re having trouble getting goods from the local merchants.” Wilfred Kistard leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his round, sagging belly.

“The local merchants do what they must.” Devlin had been pulled aside more than once while some storekeeper feverishly explained that his defection was temporary and if Mr. Fitzwilliam would simply have patience . . .

“You’ve had some accidents on the property.” Scrubby tapped the table. “Any more problems?”

“Security has been tightened.” Devlin met his anxious gaze and nodded.

“How bad is it if you don’t get that five-star rating?” Penn Sample smacked his lips. “I’d say that would cause a significant loss of revenue.”

“True. So true.” Osgood’s shoulders slumped as he looked toward Bradley for guidance.

“My hotels do not lose revenue.” Devlin looked around the table. “The invitations to the grand opening will be going out in another week. Look for it in the mail. It will be the event of the season.”

“Do you really imagine anyone will show up to see you desecrate the sacred traditions of Amelia Shores?” Benjamin asked.

“You will. Your curiosity won’t let you stay away.” Devlin’s certainty ran headlong into Benjamin’s outrage.

Benjamin’s wrath faltered. He would, indeed, be there.

Four ground out one cigarette, then lit another immediately and took a long draw like a man in need of a much stronger drug.

Bradley watched him with ill-concealed contempt. “You’re too old to be smoking those things. Those are for adolescents. Try to be a man about one thing, at least.”

“You want him to be a man about smoking?” Meadow asked. “How would he do that?”

“There’s nothing like a cigar.” Bradley held up his hand to forestall any comment from her. “I know some ladies don’t like the smell, but there’s nothing like the smooth, warm smoke of a good cigar.”

Four must have really been irritated by his father’s reprimand, especially in front of Meadow, for his voice ground with exasperation. “I don’t like cigars, sir.”

“I don’t see why you value mouth cancer from a cigar more than lung cancer from a cigarette. They both end in mutilating surgeries, awful bouts of chemotherapy, and death.” Meadow smiled, a slight upward tilt of the lips and the least genuine smile Devlin had ever had the privilege to view.

The contrast between that and her regular smile was so great,
every old fart there looked taken aback, and Bradley harrumphed in perturbation. “Young lady, that’s a harsh view of a pleasant pastime. We raise tobacco in this state, and we don’t believe all the propaganda about cancer-causing agents and such.”

“Mr. Benjamin, if you had ever once visited a cancer ward, you would believe.” Taking the burning cigarette from between Four’s fingers, she stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Never mind the cigars,” she said to him. “Just give it up.”

Bradley started to speak.

She looked at him straight-on, and did the one thing Devlin thought was impossible: She stared him down.

Bradley looked away. “Cheeky.”

In the background, Devlin saw Scrubby grin, and Kistard and Osgood leaned back in their chairs, crossed their arms, and waited for further entertainment. Bradley was well respected, but by no means popular.

A young mother came out onto the deck. She wore the tourist’s usual uniform—flip-flops, a bathing suit, a cover-up, and drifts of sand. But she carried an extra decoration—a car seat hung over her arm. She looked hot and tired, and the baby wailed for attention.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Benjamin exploded with disgust. “Can’t these people see this is a nice restaurant?”

The woman heard him. Of course she did. Her sunburned cheeks got redder, and her shocked, hurt eyes filled with tears.

Meadow was on her feet at once, arms extended. “Let me help you get settled so you can take care of the baby. Where would you like to sit? In the shade, I’ll bet.”

The mother shook her head and glanced anxiously at the table of old farts.

“Don’t worry about him.” Meadow’s voice carried as clearly as had Benjamin’s. “His arthritis is acting up.” She found the woman a comfortable spot, sent Dave for water, and all the while chatted about vacations and seashells and eating carrots sticks with sand on them.

Slowly the mother relaxed and responded.

And all the while the old guys and Four and Devlin watched, because they couldn’t take their eyes away from Meadow’s gleaming copper hair.

Meadow lifted the three-month-old out of the car seat.

Out of the corner of his eye Devlin saw Bradley Benjamin start. Devlin looked over.

Benjamin stared at Meadow, frowning, puzzled.

She bounced it against her hip, smiling and talking in the low croon of an experienced caretaker.

Benjamin took a sharp breath. The color drained from his face. He grimaced and put his hand to his chest.

Devlin leaned back with a sigh of contentment. His plans were proceeding as he wished.

Bradley Benjamin had recognized Isabelle’s granddaughter.

“D
o you have a copy of
The Secret Garden
?” Meadow leaned across the counter toward the owner of the Amelia Shores Bookstore.

Mrs. Cognomi, middle-aged, stout, with a mustache and suspiciously black hair, glared as if she were offended. “Of course I have a copy. It’s popular vacation reading for children. Hardcover or paperback?”

“Hardcover.” As Mrs. Cognomi bustled off to fetch it, Meadow called, “I want it for Devlin.” Without visible qualm, she indicated him.

Two other customers browsing the shelves turned to look at him, standing beside Meadow. One woman smirked at him. The other turned her back and silently laughed.

With one simple sentence, Meadow had ruined his reputation as the meanest son of a bitch in Amelia Shores.

Mrs. Cognomi fetched an oversize hardcover with an impressionistic painting of a young Victorian girl. She handed it to Meadow, who received it with soft, cooing noises.

Mrs. Cognomi straightened her black glasses and looked him over so critically she reminded him of his first-grade teacher. “You know, Mr. Fitzwilliam, you should consider putting a copy in each room in your hotel.”

“Yes! That’s brilliant, Mrs. Cognomi.” Meadow turned to Devlin. “That would be a nice touch.”

“Who would care?” Devlin stood there stoically, his arms crossed across his chest.

“All the women who read
The Secret Garden
when they were young.” Meadow confided to Mrs. Cognomi, “My husband has never read it.”

Mrs. Cognomi
tsk
ed. “Yet it’s a lovely story with lessons for us all. Would you like me to order the hardcover edition for the hotel?”

“I don’t think—” Devlin said.

“No. People steal towels. Can you imagine how fast they’d snatch up a book like this?” Meadow slid it across the counter to Mrs. Cognomi. “Do you have it in trade paperback?”

“Yes, and a good choice indeed, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” Mrs. Cognomi approved of Meadow. Of course she approved of Meadow. Who didn’t? “How many copies do you need?”

“Let’s start with sixty,” Meadow decided.

“There are only forty-five rooms,” Devlin said.

“Yes, but we have to figure on loss during the grand opening,” Meadow said sensibly. “So, Mrs. Cognomi, sixty copies to begin with, and we’ll let you know when we need more.”

“Lovely.” Mrs. Cognomi pulled out her order pad and began filling it out. “How would you like to pay?”

“Devlin, give her your credit card,” Meadow instructed.

Devlin couldn’t believe he had suddenly accrued such an absurd expense. An expense that should be coming out of the corporation. But he knew his CFO. She questioned every receipt. And damned if he was going to try to explain why he had ordered sixty copies of a girlie children’s book. As he flipped through his wallet, he asked Mrs. Cognomi, “If you do business with me, aren’t you afraid Bradley Benjamin will foreclose on your store?”

“He doesn’t own the mortgage on my store. Nor does he own the building my store is in.” Mrs. Cognomi folded her arms across her belly and smirked with satisfaction. “I do.”

Devlin developed a sudden liking for Mrs. Cognomi. “Better make it ninety copies.”

“With the bulk discount, that’ll be four hundred eighty dollars, plus tax. They’ll be delivered here next Tuesday. I’ll bring them out to you—I’d love to see the restoration work you’ve done.” Taking Devlin’s card, Mrs. Cognomi swiped it through the cash register. “Bradley Benjamin is the type of man who scorns fiction and reads newspapers and business journals.”

“I don’t understand that kind of joyless approach to life,” Meadow said. “But let’s not say anything disparaging about Mr. Benjamin. They just took him away in an ambulance suffering from angina.”

Mrs. Cognomi looked unimpressed. “He’s gone to the hospital before. He always survives. Only the good die young.”

“It sometimes seems that way, doesn’t it?” For a telling moment, Meadow’s lower lip trembled.

Devlin noted . . . and wondered.

Then she lifted her chin and smiled. “Don’t forget to charge us for the hardcover copy! I’m going to read it to Devlin.”

“Good for you.” Mrs. Cognomi looked right at Devlin, her protuberant brown eyes enlarged by her lenses. “It would be too bad if Mr. Fitzwilliam became as joyless as Bradley Benjamin, wouldn’t it?”

Devlin scowled with so much annoyance, Meadow knew she could get away with murder right now. Good thing she wanted so much less. “Mrs. Cognomi, can I use your restroom?”

“Of course, dear. They’re through the swinging doors to your right.”