Dream Trilogy (38 page)

Once, years before, she had fantasized about finding Seraphina’s dowry all alone, of bearing it proudly home to her aunt and uncle. She had learned to live without that triumph.

She was afraid. She was so afraid.

Like father, like daughter. Oh, dear God, would it come out now? Would it all come out? And how much more damning then? What would this do to the people who loved her, who had had such hopes for her?

What was it people said? Blood will tell. Had she done something, made some ridiculous mistake? Christ, how could she think clearly now when her life had been turned upside down and shattered at her feet?

She had to wrap her arms tight around her body against the spring breeze, which now seemed frigid.

She’d committed no crime, she reminded herself. She’d done nothing wrong. All she’d done was lose a job. Just a job.

It had nothing to do with the past, nothing to do with blood, nothing to do with where she had come from.

With a whimper, she eased down onto a rock. Who was she trying to fool? Somehow it had to do with everything. How could it not? She’d lost what she had taught herself to value most next to family. Success and reputation.

Now she was exactly what she’d always been afraid she was. A failure.

How could she face them, any of them, with the fact that
she’d been fired, was under suspicion of embezzling? That she had, as she always advised her clients not to, put all of her eggs in one basket, only to see it smashed.

But she would have to face them. She had to tell her family before someone else did. Oh, and someone would. It wouldn’t take long. She didn’t have the luxury of digging a hole and hiding in it. Everything she was and did was attached to the Templetons.

What would her aunt and uncle think? They would have to see the parallel. If they doubted her . . . She could stand anything, anything at all except their doubt and disappointment.

She reached in her pocket, chewed viciously on a Tums, and wished for a bottle of aspirin—or some of the handy tranqs Margo had once used. To think she’d once been so disdainful of those little crutches. To think she had once considered Seraphina a fool and a coward for choosing to leap rather than stay and face her loss.

She looked out to sea, then rose and walked closer to the edge. The rocks below were mean. That was what she’d always liked best about them, those jagged, unforgiving spears standing up defiantly to the constant, violent crash of water.

She had to be like the rocks now, she thought. She had to stand and face whatever happened next.

Her father hadn’t been strong. He hadn’t stood, he hadn’t faced it. And now, in some twisted way, she was paying the price.
 

Byron studied her from the side of the road. He’d seen her car whiz past as he was leaving Josh’s house. He wasn’t sure what impulse had pushed him to follow her, still wasn’t sure what was making him stay.

There was something about the way she looked, standing there at the edge of the cliff, so alone. It made him nervous, and a little annoyed. That vulnerability again, he supposed, a quiet neediness that called to his protective side.

He wouldn’t have pegged her as the type to walk the cliffs or stare out to sea.

He nearly got back into his car and drove off. But he shrugged and decided that since he was here, he’d might as well enjoy the view.

“Hell of a spot,” he said as he walked up to her. It gave him perverse pleasure to see her jolt.

“I was enjoying it,” she muttered and kept her back to him.

“Plenty of view for two to enjoy. I saw your car, and . . .” When he got a look at her, he saw that her eyes were damp. He’d always been compelled to dry a woman’s tears. “Bad day?” he murmured and offered her a handkerchief.

“It’s just windy.”

“Not that windy.”

“I wish you’d go away.”

“Ordinarily I try to comply with women’s requests. Since I’m not going to in your case, why don’t you sit down, tell me about it?” He took her arm, thinking the tension in it was edgy enough to cut glass. “Think of me as a priest,” he suggested, dragging her with him. “I wanted to be one once.”

“To use some clever phrasing, bullshit.”

“No, really.” He pulled her down on a rock with him. “I was eleven. Then puberty hit, and the rest is history.”

She tried and failed to tug free and rise. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you? That I want to be alone?”

To soothe, because her voice was catching helplessly, he stroked a hand over her hair. “It crossed my mind, but I rejected it. People who feel sorry for themselves always want to talk about it. That, next to sex, was the main reason I decided against the seminary. And dancing. Priests don’t get lots of opportunity to dance with pretty women—which, I suppose, is the same thing as sex. Well, enough about me.”

He put a determined hand under her chin and lifted it. She was pale, those long, spiky lashes were wet and those deep, doe’s eyes damp. But . . .

“Your eyes aren’t red enough for you to have had a good cry yet.”

“I’m not a sniveler.”

“Listen, kid, my sister highly recommends a good cry, and she’d deck you for calling her a sniveler.” Gently, he rubbed his thumb over Kate’s chin. “Screaming’s good, too, and throwing breakables. There was a lot of that in my house.”

“There’s no point—”

“Venting,” he interrupted smoothly. “Purging. There aren’t any breakables around here, but you could let out a good scream.”

Emotions welling up inside her threatened to choke her. Furiously she jerked her face free of his hand. “I don’t need you or anyone to charm me out of a mood. I can handle my own problems just fine. If I need a friend, all I have to do is go up to the house. Up to the house,” she repeated as her gaze focused on the towering structure of stone and wood and glass that held everything precious to her.

Covering her face with her hands, she broke.

“That’s a girl,” he murmured, relieved by the natural flow of tears. “Come here now.” He drew her close, stroking her hair, her back. “Get it all out.”

She couldn’t stop. It didn’t matter who he was, his arms were strong, his voice understanding. With her face buried against his chest, she sobbed out the frustration, the grief, the fear, let herself for one liberating moment be coddled.

He rested his cheek on her hair, held her lightly. Lightly because she seemed so small, so fragile. A good grip might shatter those thin bones. Tears soaked through his shirt, cooled from hot to cold on his skin.

“I’m sorry. Damn it.” She would have pulled away, but he continued to hold her. Humiliated, she squeezed her aching eyes shut. “I never would have done that if you’d left me alone.”

“You’re better off this way. It’s not healthy to hold everything in.” Automatically, he kissed the top of her head before easing her back to study her face.

Why it should have charmed him, wet, blotchy, streaked with mascara as it was, he couldn’t have said. But he had a terrible urge to shift her onto his lap, to kiss that soft, sad
mouth, to stroke her again, not quite so consolingly.

Bad move, he cautioned himself, and wondered how any man faced with such sexy distress could think like a priest.

“Not that you look better.” He took the handkerchief she’d balled up in her fist and mopped at her face. “But you should feel better enough to tell me why you’re so upset.”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“So what?”

She could feel another sob bubbling in her chest and blurted out the words before it could escape. “I got fired.”

He continued calmly cleaning and drying her face. “Why?”

“They think—” Her voice hitched. “They think I—”

“Take a breath,” he advised, “and say it fast.”

“They think I stole money out of client escrow. Embezzled. Seventy-five thousand.”

Watching her face, he stuck the ruined linen back in his pocket. “Why?”

“Because—because there are duplicate 1040s, and money missing. And they’re my clients.”

And my father—my father. But she couldn’t say that, not out loud.

In fits and starts she babbled out the gist of her meeting with the partners. A great deal of it was incoherent, details crisscrossing and overlapping, but he continued to nod. And listen.

“I didn’t take any money.” She let out a long, unsteady breath. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but—”

“Of course I believe you.”

It was her turn to gather her wits. “Why?”

Leaning back a little, he took out a cigar, shielding the flame on his lighter with a cupped hand. “In my line of work, you get a handle on people quickly. You’ve been around the hotel business most of your life. You know how it is. There are plenty of times with a guest, or staff, that you have to make a snap judgment. You’d better be accurate.” Puffing out smoke, he studied her. “My take on you, Katherine, in the first five minutes, was—well, among other things—that you’re
the type of woman who would choke on her integrity before she loosened it to breathe.”

Her breath came out shaky, but some of the panic eased. “I appreciate it. I think.”

“I’d have to say you worked for a bunch of shortsighted idiots.”

She sniffled. “They’re accountants.”

“There you go.” He smiled, ran a finger down her cheek when she glared. “A flash there in those big brown eyes. That’s better. So, are you going to take it lying down?”

Rising, she straightened her shoulders. “I can’t think about how or what I can take now. I only know I wouldn’t work at Bittle again if they came crawling on their hands and knees through broken glass.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant someone’s embezzling and pointing the finger at you. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” He shook his head. “I find that hard to believe. The Katherine Powell I’ve seen is a scrapper.”

“I said I don’t care.” And her voice hitched again. If she fought, looked too close, demanded too much, they might uncover what her father had done. Then it would be worse. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“You’ve got a brain,” he corrected.

“It doesn’t feel like it at the moment.” She put a hand to her head. Everything inside was mushy and aching. “They can’t do anything else to me because I don’t have the money, and they’d never be able to prove I do. As far as I’m concerned right now, finding who’s skimming is Bittle’s problem. I just want to be left alone.”

Surprised at her, he stood up. “I’d want their ass.”

“Right now, I just want to be able to get through the next few hours. I have to tell my family.” She closed her eyes. “Earlier today, I actually thought, hoped, that I was going to be called in and offered a partnership. Signs indicated,” she said bitterly. “I couldn’t wait to tell them.”

“Brag?” But he said it gently, with hardly any sting.

“I suppose. ‘Look at what I did. Be proud of me because . . . ’ Well, that’s done. Now I have to tell them that I lost it all, that the prospects of getting another position or finessing any clients are nil for the foreseeable future.”

“They’re family.” He stepped toward her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Families stand by each other.”

“I know that.” For a moment, she wanted to take his hand. He had such big, competent hands. She wanted to take it and press it to her cheek. Instead she stepped back, turned away. “That makes it worse. I can’t begin to tell you how much worse. Now, I’m feeling sorry for myself all over again.”

“It comes and goes, Kate.” Well aware that they were doing a little dance and dodge of physical contact, he draped an arm around her shoulders. “Do you want me to go up with you?”

“No.” She was appalled, because for an instant she’d wanted to say yes. To lean her head against that broad shoulder, close her eyes, and let him lead. “No, I have to do it.” She slipped away from him again, but faced him. “This was awfully nice of you. Really. Nice.”

He smiled, his dimples deepening. “That wouldn’t have been insulting if you hadn’t sounded quite so surprised.”

“I didn’t mean to be insulting.” She managed a smile of her own. “I meant to be grateful. I am grateful . . . Father De Witt.”

Testing, he lifted a hand, skimmed his fingers through her short cap of hair. “I decided I don’t want you to think of me as a priest after all.” His hand slid down the back of her neck. “It’s that sex thing again.”

She felt it herself—inconvenient little hormonal tugs. “Hmm.” It seemed as good a response as any. And certainly safe. “I’d better go get this done.” Eyes warily on his, she backed up. “I’ll see you around.”

“Apparently you will.” He stepped forward, she backed up again.

“What are you doing?”

Amused at both of them, he raised his eyebrows. “Going to my car. I’m parked behind you.”

“Oh. Well.” As casually as possible, she turned and walked to the car as he fell into step beside her. “I, ah, have you seen the house yet, the one on Seventeen Mile?”

“I have an appointment to view it tonight, as it happens.”

“Good. That’s good.” She jangled her keys in her pocket before pulling them out. “Well, I hope you like it.”

“I’ll let you know.” He closed a hand over hers on the door handle. When her gaze flew suspiciously to his, he smiled. “My daddy taught me to open doors for ladies. Consider it a southern thing.”

She shrugged, slid into the car. “Well, ’bye.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

She wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean, but he was already walking toward his own car. Besides, she had a pretty good idea.

“It’s outrageous. It’s insulting.”

In a rare show of temper, Laura stormed around the solarium. Thirty minutes before, Kate had interrupted homework time, and Laura had shifted from solving the mysteries of punctuation and multiplication tables with her daughters to the shock of hearing Kate’s story.

Watching her friend, Kate was glad she’d had the presence of mind to ask to speak to Laura privately. The flash in the gray eyes, the angry flush staining those cool ivory cheeks, and the wild gestures might have frightened the children.

“I don’t want you to be upset,” Kate began.

“You don’t want me to be upset?” Laura rounded on her, the curling swing of chin-length bronze hair flying, the soft, pretty mouth pulled back into a snarl. “Then what exactly should I be when my sister gets plugged between the eyes?”

Oh, yeah, Kate thought, this definitely would have given the girls a jolt. If she hadn’t been so miserable, she would have laughed. Laura the Cool had metamorphosed into Laura
the Enraged. Despite being five two, she looked capable of going ten rounds with the champ.

“Don’t want me to be upset!” Laura repeated, her small, almost fairylike frame revving high as she stalked around the lush glass-walled room. “Well, I’m not upset. I’m past upset and heading beyond pissed. How dare they? How dare those pinheaded idiots think for one minute, for one instant, that you’d steal money?”

She slapped at the swaying fronds of a potted palm. “When I think how many times the Bittles have been guests in this house, it makes my blood boil. Treating you like a common criminal. Escorting you out of the building. I’m surprised they didn’t bring out the cuffs and the SWAT team.” Sun pouring through the glass walls glinted fiercely in her eyes. “Bastards, idiot bastards.”

She pounced, all five feet two inches of raging fury, on the slim white phone beside the padded chaise. “We’re calling Josh. We’re suing them.”

“Hold it. No, hold it, Laura.” Torn between tears and laughter, Kate slapped a hand over her friend’s. For the life of her, Kate couldn’t remember why she’d hesitated to come here, to Templeton House. This was exactly what she’d needed to snap her back. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the tirade, but—”

“You haven’t begun to see a tirade.”

“I’ve got nothing to sue them about. The evidence—”

“I don’t give a fuck about evidence.” At Kate’s bubble of laughter, her eyes narrowed. “Just what the hell are you laughing at?”

“I’ll never get used to hearing you say ‘fuck.’ It’s just not natural.” But she swallowed because the laugh had come perilously close to hysteria. “And seeing you storm around this elegant room with all the hibiscus and ferns is quite a show.” She caught her breath. “I didn’t come here to send you on a rampage, though it’s doing wonders for my bruised ego.”

“This isn’t about ego.” Laura struggled to get a grip on her temper. She lost it rarely because it was a powerful thing,
a dangerous thing. “It’s about defamation of character, loss of income. We’re not going to let them get away with this, Kate. We’ve got a lawyer in the family, and we’re going to use him.”

There was no use in pointing out that Josh wasn’t a litigator. She certainly wouldn’t have told Laura that the very thought of pursuing the matter, particularly through the legal system, had her feeling nauseated again. Instead, she struggled to keep it light.

“Maybe we could have him tack on loss of consortium, just for kicks. I always liked that one.”

“How can you joke?”

“Because you’ve made me feel so much better.” Suddenly she felt like crying again, and hugged Laura tight instead. “I knew in my heart you’d stand behind me, but in my head, in my gut . . . I was just so shattered. Oh, God.” She eased away to press a hand to her stomach. “I’m going to start again.”

“Oh, Kate. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Gently now, Laura slipped a hand around her waist. “Let’s sit down. We’ll get some tea, some wine, some chocolate, and figure this out.”

Kate sniffed back the tears, nodded. “Tea’s good. Alcohol hasn’t been agreeing with me lately.” She managed a smile. “Chocolate never fails.”

“Okay. Just sit right here.” Normally she would have gone to the kitchen herself, but she didn’t want to leave Kate alone. Instead she crossed the glossy fieldstone floor to the intercom by the doorway—the system Peter had insisted they install to summon the servants. After a few murmured instructions, she came back to Kate and sat down.

“I feel so useless,” Kate said. “So stripped. I don’t think I appreciated, really, how Margo must have felt last year when she had the rug pulled out from under her.”

“You were there for her. Just like Margo and I, and everyone, will be here for you. Anyone who knows you won’t believe you did anything wrong.”

“Even one who doesn’t,” she murmured, thinking of Byron. “Still, plenty will believe it. It’s going to get out, I can
promise you that. I’m used to defending myself,” she continued. “Skinny girls with more brains than charm tend to hide through high school, or fight through it.”

“And you always fought.”

“I’m out of practice.” She closed her eyes and leaned back. The room smelled like a garden, she thought. Peaceful, calm. She badly needed to find calm again. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Laura. It’s probably the first time in my life I don’t have a plan.” She opened her eyes again, met the concern in Laura’s. “I know it’s going to sound foolish, but everything I am and wanted to be was tied up in my career. I was good at it. More than good. I needed to be. I chose Bittle because it was an old, established firm, there was plenty of room and opportunity for advancement, because it was close to home. I liked the people there—and I don’t like that many people. I felt comfortable and appreciated.”

“You’d feel comfortable and appreciated at Templeton,” Laura said quietly and took her hand. “You know there’s no question that you could have a position there tomorrow. Mom and Dad wanted you in the organization.”

With a taint on her, she thought, that stretched back a generation. No, that she would not ask. “They’ve done enough for me.”

“Kate, that’s ridiculous.”

“Not to me. I can’t go crawling to them now. I’d hate myself.” It was the only thing she felt capable of standing firm on. Maybe it was pride, but it was all she had left. “It’s going to be hard enough to call them and tell them about this.”

“You know exactly what their reaction will be, but I’ll do it if you like.”

Would they remember? Kate wondered. Just for an instant, remember? And doubt. That she had to face as well. Alone. “No, I’ll call them in the morning.” She ran a hand over her slim navy skirt and tried to be practical. “I’ve got a little time to weigh my options. Money isn’t an immediate problem. I’ve got some set aside, and there’s the income, meager though it
is, from the shop.” Her hand jerked. “Oh, God. Oh, my God, is this going to affect the shop?”

“Of course not. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” Kate sprang up. Her stomach began doing flip-flops again. “ ‘Pretenses’ third partner suspected of embezzlement.’ ‘CPA skimming client accounts.’ ‘Former Templeton ward under investigation.’”

She squeezed her eyes shut, terrified of what that investigation might uncover. Blood will tell. Think of now, she ordered herself. One step at a time.

“Jesus, Laura, it never occurred to me until this second. I could ruin it. A lot of my clients shop there.”

“Just stop it. You’re innocent. I wouldn’t be surprised if a great many of your clients dismiss this whole business as nonsense.”

“People have a funny attitude about their money, Laura, and about the people they hire to handle it for them.”

“That may be, but you’re going to start handling mine. Don’t even think about arguing,” Laura said before Kate could open her mouth. “I don’t have a lot to work with since Peter scalped me in the divorce, but I expect you to fix that. And it’s about time you started pulling your weight at the shop. Margo and I are adequate bookkeepers, but—”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

Pleased, Laura cocked a brow. “Well, then, you’d better get busy protecting our investment. You were too busy before, but now you’ve got time on your hands.”

“So it seems.”

“And by putting in some time behind the counter as well, you can take some of the pressure off Margo and me.”

Kate’s mouth fell open. “You expect me to clerk? Regularly? Damn it, Laura, I’m not a saleswoman.”

“Neither was Margo,” Laura said placidly. “And neither was I. Circumstances change. Bend or break, Kate.”

She wanted to remind Laura that she had an MBA from Harvard. She’d graduated with honors a full year early. She’d been within a breath of a partnership at one of the most
respected firms in the area, had handled millions of dollars a year in accounts.

She closed her mouth again because none of it was worth a damn at the moment. “I don’t know an Armani from . . . anything.”

“You’ll learn.”

It was self-indulgent, but she pouted anyway. “I don’t even like jewelry.”

“The customers do.”

“I don’t understand why people need to clutter up their house with dust catchers.”

Laura smiled. If Kate was arguing, she thought, she was coming around. “That’s easy. To keep us in business.”

“Good point,” Kate conceded. “I haven’t done too badly the few Saturdays I’ve been able to help out. It’s just dealing with people, day after day.”

“You’ll learn to live with it. We really need you on the books. We didn’t push it before because we didn’t want to pressure you. Actually Margo did, but I talked her out of it.”

One of the many wounds she’d been planning to lick healed over. “Really?”

“No offense, Kate, but we’ve been open about ten months. Margo and I decided after about ten days that we really hate accounting. We hate spreadsheets. We hate percentages. We hate figuring the sales tax we have to send off every month.”

Laura let out a sigh, lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t tell you, she asked me not to, but . . .”

“What?”

“Well, Margo. . . We didn’t think we could add to our overhead with a full-time bookkeeper, not yet anyway. So Margo’s been looking into taking classes.”

“Classes.” Kate blinked. “Accounting classes? Margo? Jesus Christ.”

“And business management, and computers.” Laura winced. “Now, with the baby coming along, it seems like a lot to handle. I’m fairly computer-literate,” she added, hoping to press her point. “I have to be, working conventions and
special events at the hotel. But retail’s a different matter entirely.” Knowing the value of timing, she waited a beat, let it sink in. “I just don’t see how I could squeeze any classes in myself, between working at Templeton, the shop, the girls.”

“Of course not. You should have told me you were having that rough a time. I’d have picked up the ball.”

“You’ve been cross-eyed with work for six months. It didn’t seem fair.”

“Fair? Hell, it’s business. I’ll come in first thing in the morning and take a good look at the books.”

Laura managed to keep her smile pleasant rather than smug as Ann Sullivan wheeled in a tea cart. “The girls have finished their homework,” Ann began. “I brought extra cups and plates so they could join you. I thought you might enjoy a little tea party.”

“Thank you, Annie.”

“Miss Kate, it’s good to see—” Her smile of greeting faded the minute she looked into Kate’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“Oh, Annie.” Kate caught the hand Ann had lifted to her cheek, soothed herself with it. “My life’s a mess.”

“I’ll get the girls,” Laura said, rising. “And another cup,” she added, nodding at Ann. “We’ll have our tea party, and work on straightening it out.”

Because Kate had always been the awkward one, and the feisty one, she held a special place in Ann’s heart. After pouring two cups, selecting two chocolate-frosted cakes, Ann sat down and draped an arm around Kate’s shoulder.

“Now, you drink your tea and eat some sweets and tell Annie all about it.”

Sighing, Kate burrowed. Dorothy from Kansas was right, she decided. There really was no place like home.
 

“I don’t like the way she keeps talking about software.” Behind the counter of Pretenses, Margo muttered into Laura’s ear. “The only software I want to know about is cashmere.”

“We don’t have to know,” Laura muttered right back.
“Because she knows. Think about all the Sunday evenings we sweated over the books.”

“Right.” But Margo pouted. “Actually, I thought I was getting pretty good at it. The way she talks, it’s like I was brain-dead.”

“Want to go into the back room and help her out?”

“No.” That was definite. Margo scanned a browsing customer, calculated nine more seconds before the next subtle sales pitch. “But I don’t like the way she’s taking this whole mess. No way our Kate walks away from a fight.”

“She’s hurt, shaken.” Though Laura was worried over it herself. “This is just recovery time.”

“It better be. I’m not going to be able to hold Josh back from storming into Bittle much longer.” A martial light glowed in her Mediterranean blue eyes. “I’m not going to be able to hold myself back, for that matter. Creeps, jerks.”

She continued to mutter as she approached the customer, but her face underwent a metamorphosis. Easy, sophisticated beauty. “That’s a gorgeous lamp, isn’t it? It belonged to Christie Brinkley.” Margo trailed a finger down the mother-of-pearl shade. “Confidentially, it was a gift from Billy, and she didn’t want to keep it around any longer.”

Truth or fiction? Laura wondered, muffling a laugh. The ownership was fact, but the little sidebar was probably fantasy.

“Laura.” With the long-suffering look she’d worn after the first hour with the books, Kate stepped out of the back office. “Do you realize how much money you’re wasting by short-ordering boxes? The more you order at a time, the less each costs. The way we go through them—”

“Ah, yes, you’re right.” Out of defense and necessity, Laura looked at her watch. “Oops, piano lessons. Gotta go.”

“You’re buying tape at the dime store rather than through a wholesaler,” Kate added, dogging Laura to the door.

“I should be shot. ’Bye.” And she escaped.