Dangerous Ladies (65 page)

“Wow.” Meadow was impressed. “You could teach a class in positive thinking.”

“Mother, who will we get for the freaks?”

Grace waved him away. “Those will be the guests, dear.”

Meadow blinked. Who knew? Grace never cracked a smile, but she had a keen sense of humor.

“We’ll have cotton candy and those red apples, and the waiters will be dressed like carnival barkers.”

Devlin viewed her cautiously. “Mother, this doesn’t sound at all like your kind of party.”

“Dear, the party has to fit the people it honors, and in this case . . .” Grace gestured eloquently at Meadow.

Meadow contemplated blacking her front tooth and painting big red freckles on her nose.

Grace continued. “The waiters will circulate with trays. They’ll have tokens to play the games, and champagne and hors d’oeurves.”

“Champagne and hors d’oeuvres. That’s more like it,” Devlin said.

“In honor of Meadow, the decorations should be natural—flowers, flowers, flowers! And, as the centerpiece”—Grace flung her arms dramatically upward—“a Ferris wheel!”

In that instant, Meadow forgave her the insults and for barging in at the wrong moment—twice. “A Ferris wheel would be fabu!”

“Exactly!” Grace’s lips puckered as if she had bitten into a lemon. “
Fabu
was the precise word I was looking for.”

Devlin began, “It’s not the word I—”

“A real full-sized Ferris wheel?” Meadow asked.

“But of course! It wouldn’t do to skimp,” Grace said.

Devlin tried again. “A Ferris wheel is not—”

“With lights and music! How about a roller coaster?” Meadow bounced on the couch.

“No. That would be overdoing it.” When Meadow tried to protest, Grace pointed a finger at her. “We’re going to invite all the best people in the South, and newspeople, too. It will be an event, and we don’t want to be perceived as vulgar.”

“Or free-range chickens.” Then Meadow perked back up again. “I bet we could get Dead Bob. He performs at the Renaissance festivals. Oh, and the Fantastic Juggling Oxenberries.”

“Very clever! A few shows would add to the ambience.”

Devlin could hardly contain his exasperation. “Mother, I appreciate the thought you put into this, but—”

“Listen, Meadow.” Grace’s eyes gleamed. “The Ferris wheel will be the visual centerpiece of the party, and you and Devlin will announce your marriage from the top of the wheel.”

“That’s sick!” Meadow said.

“Sick?”
Grace was taken aback.

“You know—awesome!” Meadow explained.

“Ah.
Awesome.
” That pucker was back. “Another word I was looking for.”

“Ladies!” Devlin’s single snapped word finally got their attention. “There will be no cotton candy. There will be no carnival barkers. And make no mistake, there will be no Ferris wheel.” He stopped their outcry with a firm gesture. “That is my final word.”

D
evlin couldn’t believe he had a Ferris wheel spinning in his yard, or that it released a shower of flower petals every time it reached the top, filling the air with a whirling, scented snowstorm. He couldn’t believe he had carnival barkers and games, and, providing the music for the afternoon, an antique steam calliope painted blue, red, and yellow, and decorated with liberal amounts of gilding. He couldn’t believe that Dead Bob was doing his act on the stage in the walled garden.

What Devlin really couldn’t believe was that people, adult people, his distinguished guests, were eating and playing and riding the riding the Ferris wheel while shrieking like children.

This grand opening may have been his mother’s concept—but it was Meadow’s fault. Without Meadow’s influence, Grace would have never thought up such an outrageous extravaganza.

Of course . . . the two women were right. He’d already seen three camera crews covering the event, and recognized at least five travel writers taking notes—and grinning. It was a huge success, but damned if he would admit it to Grace and Meadow.

Hands on hips, he stood on Waldemar’s wraparound porch and surveyed the scene.

The waiters circulated through the crowd. Gregory Madison, federal judge, sat at one of the red-stripe-covered tables, eating from a pewter bowl full of cotton candy. Mr. Volchock, owner of last year’s winning Derby horse, threw baseballs at stuffed clowns, while Mrs. Volchock clutched a teddy bear he’d won her. Jessica Stillman-Williams, Grace’s boss, owner of two hundred cable stations across the United States and a ballbuster if ever there was one, wore a balloon animal hat while she stood in line for the Ferris wheel.

Four slouched against the trunk of the great live oak, drink and cigarette in hand, conversing with that girl, what-was-her-name. The cute one from the hospital.

She wore a shirt cut so low she was in imminent danger of fallout, and she was blatantly using her chest as an enticement.

It was working. Four hadn’t once glanced at her face.

When he finished the cigarette, he ground it under his heel, then glared down at it. With great and obvious irritation, he picked it up and threw it in the garbage. Meadow had cured Four of his habit of tossing out his cigarette and leaving it. When she was finished with him, he’d be cured of his cigarette habit altogether.

If she stayed.

Like the call of a siren, the sound of her laughter drew his gaze toward her. He saw her at once, of course. She wore a wide, floppy straw hat decorated with a huge blue flower—his mother said it was so vulgar she might as well leave the price tag attached—a long-sleeved blue T-shirt, shorts that displayed smooth legs, and a liberal application of sunscreen.
Complete coverage is the price of fair skin
, she’d said, laughing up at him.

Hell, he’d be aroused if she wore a nun’s habit.

There were better-looking women here—two rock stars who’d made it on their bodies, not their voices, three gorgeous models, and at least seven trophy wives—but the guys all stared at Meadow. She had a way about her; when she was around, it seemed the world was brighter, kinder, more joyous, and men, all men, wanted her to light their fire.

The lecherous sons of bitches. She was
his
fire.

The last two weeks had been marvelous and horrible. Marvelous because they’d been together every day and every night, because she looked at him as if he were the moon and the stars.

Horrible because he’d been working at a madman’s pace, and while he did, she made a methodical search of the mansion and each of its rooms. She tried to disguise it as casual wandering, as visiting with the maids, as approving the decorations, but Sam kept track on the blueprints. She never returned to the same room, and once Devlin had caught her scowling at her map.

He felt almost sorry enough for her to tell her what she needed to know—but she kept her silence. She pretended to be an amnesiac.

And he refused to make himself a fool over a woman. He refused to find himself abandoned, scorned, and betrayed like Bradley Benjamin.

Devlin would not be the one to give his trust—and it really pissed him off that she made him want to.

Off to his left, the Amelia Shores Society of Old Farts sat on the porch, observing the proceedings with varying reactions.

Scrubby Gallagher sat with his feet propped on the rail, nursing an iced tea and watching the women. He couldn’t have looked more content.

Penn Sample rocked a little too fast to be anything but annoyed by the hubbub.

Begum, one of the world’s top models, sauntered by, and Wilfred Kistard adjusted his toupee, unbuttoned the top button of his tropical-print shirt, and went after her. Good luck to the old fool.

H. Edwin Osgood wore his trademark bow tie and thick glasses, and as he watched the frivolity it seemed the stoop in his shoulders became more pronounced. Probably the carnival made him feel old.

Bradley Benjamin sat stiffly on a straight-backed chair beside Osgood. He wore a summer-weight wool suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a straw hat. All he needed was a slave boy fanning him with a frond
to be the picture of a wealthy nineteenth-century Southern planter. His posture, his scowl, everything about him was a criticism of the Secret Garden and the party.

His glower, and the opportunity to needle him, almost resigned Devlin to the cost of that antique calliope.

Devlin strolled over. “Enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?”

“This display of tastelessness”—Bradley Benjamin gestured at the party—“is a disgrace to a fine old estate.”

“But really, you didn’t expect any different from a common bastard like me.” Devlin enjoyed delivering the line before Benjamin could.

“You don’t show Mr. Benjamin the respect due him for his advanced age and noble position.” Osgood’s mouth puckered, and his skinny lips wrinkled.

“Oh, be quiet,” Bradley snapped. He did not like having his age called into play.

Penn Sample’s blue eyes twinkled with that artificial kindness he played so well, and which Devlin had learned meant trouble. “It would be a shame if something happened here before you could open your hotel.”

“Such as?”

“We saw a cell tower had been erected.” Benjamin never bothered to hide his hostility, but today he visibly bristled.

“Yes, it’s hard to miss, isn’t it?” Devlin leaned down to Benjamin’s eye level. “See the people mingling with the crowd? The ones in black and white with headsets and mouthpieces? Those are my security force. They’re on top alert.”

“You had security before.” Benjamin’s papery lids drooped over eyes heavy with malice.

“Gabriel Prescott, the national head of the firm, is here and mingling with the guests. There won’t be any incidents—or rather, any more accidents.” Devlin straightened. “I declare that from this moment, the hotel is officially open.”

Benjamin glared in helpless fury.

Devlin looked around at all of them. “Trust me, gentlemen, before the decade is out, you’ll see three more hotels along this strip. But then, that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”

It was. He could almost see them shivering in their fine leather shoes.

“Hey, Mr. Fitzwilliam!” Christian, the pastry chef, held up a football. “Look what I won!”

“Cool!” Devlin clapped his hands.

Christian launched the football at him. His aim was off, and Devlin had to dive to keep it from hitting Bradley Benjamin right in his pompous, offended old schnoz.

“Sorry, Mr. Benjamin!” Christian waved apologetically, and grimaced at Devlin.

Devlin shrugged in response and shouted, “Go long.”

Christian backed up and up and up, and Devlin shot the football right into his arms.

The crowd around the porch applauded—Southerners loved football, and they really loved having their own winning quarterback right in their backyard. He was pretty sure it was the only reason they still had electricity—the head of the local power company was a fan.

Devlin waved, and dusted his fingertips.

Grace stalked up the stairs and toward the house, her arms straight at her sides, the picture of offended dignity.

Devlin hurried toward her. “Everything all right, Mother?”

She showed him the lapel of her white jacket. “Frank Peterson was waving a pimento-cheese sandwich and hit me with it. Ill-bred lout. He’s the handyman. I don’t know why you invited him.”

“I didn’t invite him.”

“Then what is he doing here? Did he crash the party?”

Meadow walked up licking a three-scoop cone. “Who?”

“Frank Peterson,” Grace snapped.

“
I
invited him.” Meadow’s tongue massaged the ice cream. Her hat brim bobbed. “You couldn’t expect him to stay home while his wife was here.”

Grace waited for Devlin to speak, but he was busy watching Meadow catch a creamy drop before it trickled onto her hand. So, with a resigned sigh, Grace asked, “His wife? Who is . . . ?”

“His wife is Jazmin, who works at the hospital.” Meadow sounded patient, as if she were reciting information they all should know.

“And you invited her because . . . ?” Grace lifted a perfectly tweezed eyebrow.

“She was nice to me after the wreck.” Meadow’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure as she looked out at the carnival.

“I’ll bet you invited Miss I-Have-Perky-Breasts-and-I-Know-How-to-Use-Them.” Devlin indicated Four and the young girl.

“Weezy!” Meadow said.

“God bless you.” Grace brimmed over with irritation.

“Her name is Weezy,” Meadow said patiently, “and I invited her because I couldn’t invite Jazmin without hurting Weezy’s feelings. Besides, Weezy’s keeping Four entertained.”

Devlin noticed that Meadow’s tongue had turned bright pink from the red sprinkles. He broke a sweat.

Weezy tucked her hand into Four’s arm. As they strolled past, the silence on the porch varied from freezing disapproval from Grace to wide-eyed lecherousness from Penn Sample.