Every Breath You Take (4 page)

Caroline pressed back farther into the chair and firmly shook her head. “This is the best time and the best way. Go with Olivia now. Please, do it for me—” she urged when he still looked unwilling. “After tonight, Billy and I will be able to go places with you without my having to worry that people will think I’ve already replaced William with a boyfriend.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Mitchell agreed impatiently, then he gave Olivia his arm, and she took it.

A
T THE ENTRY TO THE LIVING ROOM
, O
LIVIA PAUSED, ALLOWING
him to take a good long look at the elegant socialites who were there, while she provided him with tidbits of information about their lofty pedigrees and important achievements. “The gentleman who Cecil just spoke to is the grandson of the founder of Universal Rubber. He’s going to run for senator, and we all think he’ll be president someday. The attractive brunette with him—the one who is looking in our direction right now—is his wife.”

Mitchell let her go on, but he knew at a glance who these people were and
what
they were: self-important, pompous men who believed “good breeding” set them above all others; self-indulgent, vain women who were bored with their lives and their men, and who entertained themselves with charity work and torrid little affairs. The scene in this room wasn’t new to Mitchell at all, except that it lacked the international flair and diversity he was accustomed to. Other than that, this was simply a miniature, and somewhat provincial, scene from his own life.

“The gentleman in the dark gray suit and maroon tie is Gray Elliott,” Olivia confided. “Gray is from a fine old Chicago family, and he is the youngest person ever elected to the office of Cook County state’s attorney. He’s already proving his mettle and making a very big name for himself. In front of Gray is Evan Bartlett and his father, Henry. The Bartletts have handled legal affairs for
the Wyatts for as far back as I can remember—longer than that, for generations.”

Mitchell looked at the elder Bartlett and assumed Henry must have handled the messy details surrounding his birth—the falsified birth certificate, the terms of the divorce, the payoff to his mother.

“… young Evan is a brilliant attorney,” Olivia chattered enthusiastically, “who is already taking over the reins from Henry—”

Young Evan
, Mitchell thought drily,
will be going through old files tomorrow after his father tells him what he remembers about Mitchell Wyatt
.

Olivia paused to scrutinize Mitchell’s features and assess how he was reacting. “Are you bored already?” she asked, looking crestfallen.

Mitchell was worse than bored, but she was so transparently eager to impress him and make him want to be a part of all this that he found himself saying, “Not at all.”

She looked doubtful. “Are you planning to leave us soon?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes, in two weeks.”

She averted her face instantly, her hand clutching fiercely at his arm while a tremor seemed to shake her entire body. Mitchell automatically slid his arm around her back to brace her and looked for the closest chair. “You’re ill—” he began, but the episode passed as swiftly as it had occurred.

“I am rarely ill,” she replied stiffly, “and if I were going to be ill, I assure you, I would never let it happen in front of company!” To prove it, she lifted her face and looked at him with proud defiance and a sheen of tears in her faded amber eyes.

Mitchell’s jaw tightened at the sight of those tears. He rejected her
right
to feel dismay over his leaving. He’d known in Cecil’s study why she’d wanted him to look at
those portraits of his relatives. He knew why she was so damned anxious to take him into the living room tonight and introduce him to everyone as her nephew. In the last thirty-four years, she hadn’t so much as tried to send him a secret note telling him who he was or who she was to him, and now she intended to atone for that with a few empty gestures. Her woebegone face and clinging hand weren’t manifestations of any real affection for him; they were manifestations of her guilt and fear.

She was a frightened old woman, facing death with a guilty conscience; she was an arrogant, manipulative old woman who wanted to make quick atonement; and she didn’t want him to foil her by leaving too soon. In fact, she recovered from her bout of superficial distress almost immediately and inquired of him in a composed, impersonal tone, “Will you be going back to London, or will it be Paris?”

“Neither,” Mitchell snapped, deciding to park her in the nearest chair and forgo the introductions in the living room. “It’s getting late, and I want to take Caroline home.”

“Do you plan to return to Chicago at some time in the future?”

“Two weeks after I leave,” Mitchell replied, forcibly turning her toward an uncomfortable-looking antique chair right next to the entrance to the living room.

She stopped him from taking the first step toward it by angling her cane across the front of his knees. “You’re coming back in a few weeks?”

Mitchell looked down at her ecstatic face and bright, tearful eyes, and a small boulder tore loose from the wall of indifference he’d erected and maintained against his unknown family members throughout his life. She was beaming at him and clutching his arm as if she couldn’t bear to let it go.

She reminded him of a cute little spider, heedless of his
superior size and ready to brave the danger to those who venture near collapsing walls. He could have brushed her off his sleeve with a flick of his fingers, and even as he thought about doing exactly that, he heard himself say reassuringly, “I’m building a house in Anguilla. I need to spend a couple of weeks there, and then I’ll be back.”

“I’m so glad!” she said, and impulsively pressed her parchment cheek against his arm to prove it. “I’ve heard Anguilla is a beautiful island. There’s a hotel there that everyone is always talking about. Henry Bartlett goes there often,” she added, but her attention was returning to the delightful task she’d undertaken earlier and had yet to perform. “That’s Matthew Farrell and his wife, Meredith Bancroft, over there. They’ve just returned from a trip to China. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure?”

“Yes,” Mitchell said, amazed to discover that he already knew—and actually liked—two people in that room.

Craning her neck, Olivia prepared to lead him into the fray. “Now, who shall I introduce you to first?”

“Matthew Farrell,” Mitchell promptly replied.

“Very well, but we have to walk right past Evan and Henry Bartlett, so let’s start with them.” She tucked her hand through the crook of his arm, smiled eagerly, and urged him forward. Left with no other choice, Mitchell pasted a polite expression on his face and let her take the lead.

Cecil had obviously put the word out that Mitchell was present, and the word had spread swiftly, because the moment Mitchell entered the living room with Olivia on his arm, fascinated faces turned in their direction, scrutinizing him from head to foot. The conversation level dropped off, then erupted into smiling whispers.

Olivia took careful note of the favorable impact he was having and began taking tiny, slow steps so she
could show him off longer. “You are causing quite a stir among the ladies!” she confided delightedly. After another sly glance around the room, she added, “Even the married ones.”

Especially
the married ones, Mitchell thought drily. He was a new stud being led into the stable—and a thoroughbred, too, if he was a Wyatt. As a potential lover, being a thoroughbred made him so much more desirable than the usual tennis instructor, physical trainer, or penniless artist.

He’d been playing in the big leagues, with people like these, forever—he knew all the games that were played and how to play them. He also knew how to win them. He was neither proud nor ashamed of his past successes, nor interested in trying to repeat them. In fact, his only reaction to the roomful of women who were currently looking him over was a sense of relief that Olivia was too old-fashioned to imagine what some of them were thinking.

She squeezed his arm to get his attention, and Mitchell tipped his head toward her. “I know what the ladies are thinking,” she informed him.

Startled, Mitchell said warily, “You do?”

She wagged her head in affirmation and dropped her voice to a happy whisper. “They’re thinking you’re a dreamboat!”

Henry Bartlett didn’t think Mitchell was a dreamboat, Henry Bartlett knew
exactly
what Mitchell Wyatt was, and Henry Bartlett wanted Mitchell to know that. When Olivia said, “Henry, you’ve met Mitchell, haven’t you?” just as Cecil had instructed her to do, Bartlett’s frosty smile became a smirk.

“Yes,” he replied, crudely putting his right hand in his pocket instead of extending it to Mitchell. “When we met, however, Mitchell was a lot smaller.”

His unexpected answer threw Olivia into total confusion.
“Henry,” she said, “you must be thinking of someone else. You didn’t know Mitchell when he was small—”

“I think Henry is right,” Mitchell interrupted, directing his reply to Olivia while staring dispassionately at Bartlett. “In fact, I’ll bet Henry took me for my first plane ride.”

“I took you
to
it, not on it.”

“Mitchell has a plane of his own now,” Olivia put in smoothly, giving Mitchell the distinct impression that she didn’t understand anything Henry had said, but that she was aware of the undertones, and she didn’t like them. She turned to Bartlett’s son and said, “Mitchell, this is Evan Bartlett, Henry’s son.” Then she realized her mistake and awkwardly added, “You remember Evan, don’t you—”

“We’ve never met,” Mitchell said bluntly, and her fingers flew nervously to the strand of pearls at her throat.

Evan Bartlett had better manners than his father. He shook hands with Mitchell, asked no probing questions, and adroitly used the topic of private planes to start a conversation. “We’ve been looking at a two-year-old Gulfstream G-3 for our firm. Flying on commercial airlines has become such a hassle and so time-consuming that we’re at the point where it’s becoming cost-effective for us to own our own jet.”

Mitchell unjustly retaliated against Henry by letting his son flounder. Instead of replying, Mitchell lifted his brows and said nothing.

“The problem is,” Evan said after an awkward pause, “it’s hard to justify the price of the G-3 when a Lear would get us where we need to go just as well.”

“But not as comfortably,” Mitchell said finally.

“Right. Of course, if comfort and luxury were all that counted—and money was absolutely no issue—the G-5 is the only plane to own. God, that’s a beautiful bird. I
lust after that thing every time I see one on a runway. It’s as exciting to look at as a beautiful woman. Have you ever been inside one?”

Mitchell presumed he was referring to the plane, not a woman. If Olivia hadn’t been there, he’d have asked for clarification just to entertain himself with Evan’s reaction. Since she was there, he said only, “Yes.”

“So what kind of plane do you have?” Evan persisted.

“A G-5.”

Olivia emitted a snort of mirth and then looked horrified. “Mitchell is going to Anguilla in two weeks,” she burst out. “You go down there quite often, don’t you, Henry?”

“Several times a year,” Evan answered for his father, when Henry didn’t reply. “I’m going down there for the first time myself in three weeks. I wanted to go in November, but I couldn’t get reservations at the Island Club until the first of February. It’s almost impossible to stay there if you aren’t a regular guest. Are you staying at the Island Club while you’re there?”

“No.” To prevent Olivia from informing them that he was building his own home on Anguilla, which he sensed she was dying to do, Mitchell added quickly, “A friend of mine has a boat down there. I’m going to stay on board.”

“I hope I don’t end up canceling my trip,” Evan said. “A client of ours died suddenly, and his daughter is understandably upset. She may not—” He paused, glanced at his watch, and frowned. “Speaking of our client’s death, I have to go to his wake tonight, and I’m going to be very late.” He said good-bye to his father and Mitchell, then he pressed a brief kiss on Olivia’s cheek and began wending his way through the crowded room toward the front door.

Olivia took advantage of his departure and drew Mitchell away from Henry after a cool nod.

“Now let’s see where Matthew Farrell is,” she said,
craning her neck. “Oh, look, he’s coming to us. I think he’s very anxious to meet you.”

“What makes you think that?” Mitchell replied, enjoying the puzzled grin on his friend’s face.

“Look for yourself—he’s smiling at you.”

“He probably thinks I’m a dreamboat,” Mitchell joked as anticipation drove off the irritation and boredom of the last few minutes.

S
URROUNDED BY A PRIVATE GARDEN FILLED WITH THE
scent of blooming jasmine and frangipani, Kate Donovan stood on the terrace of the villa that Evan had reserved for them at the Island Club and gazed at a scene that looked very much like a slice of paradise.

Beneath a dazzling blue sky with puffy white clouds, graceful sailboats and gleaming yachts glided through the sparkling waters of Maundays Bay. Nearby, sunbathers relaxed on a crescent-shaped beach with sand as white as granulated sugar while attentive hotel employees hovered in the background in case someone raised a little flag, indicating they that wanted a chilled towel or a drink or something to eat.

A couple that was trying to paddle a kayak near the shore gave up and waded out of the water, laughing and dragging the kayak behind them. Kate smiled with vicarious enjoyment before a fresh wave of isolation swept over her and drowned it out.

The island of Anguilla was breathtakingly beautiful, and the hotel was a fairy-tale Moorish palace, with domes and turrets and fabulous gardens, but she was completely alone. Instead of distracting her from her grief over her father’s death, being alone in this alien tropical paradise was compounding the unreality and isolation she’d felt since his funeral.