Fire And Ice (3 page)

Margie sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might be more of a detriment to you than an asset? I ought to be horsewhipped for deliberately giving him the wrong impression tonight. I don’t even know why I did it.” She groaned, swinging back her long, tangled hair. “It’s this awful deadline I’m on, with only a month to go, and the book isn’t going well at all….” Her eyes met Jan’s. “Darling, I’m sorry. I’ll try to make amends tomorrow night. I’ll bite my tongue in half if it will help, truly I will. And one way or another, we’ll get you that invitation to Panama City!”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Jan said affectionately. She hugged her sister hard. “It will all work out. You’ll see.”

* * *

But as Margie dressed for dinner the following evening, she wasn’t convinced of that. She stared at her reflection in the mirror with grave misgivings.

Her dress was simple—a mass of black chiffon with a slightly sensuous v-neck surrounded by ruffles. She had put her rebellious black hair in a high knot on top of her head, with wisps falling around her face, and schooled herself to look sedate. She was sparing with her makeup and chose a perfume with a light, flowery, almost innocent scent. She looked so different from the practiced seductress of the previous night that she imagined Cannon Van Dyne might not even recognize her.

When Jan saw her irrepressible sister, she had to smother a laugh. “My, what a difference,” she said. “You remind me of Grandmother McPherson.”

“Well, it’s her house. Or it was.” She sighed. “I guess some of her rubbed off on me. At least this won’t shock your horrible future brother-in-law.”

“Care to bet?” Jan grinned.

Margie sighed, noticing how lovely Jan looked in her pale green sheath dress with its matching accessories. She was so radiant, so obviously in love with her Andy. Margie liked Andy herself. He was so open and friendly.

“Well, shall we go down?”

“Better, I guess,” Jan said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

Margie went downstairs into the living room with her sister and sat nervously on the edge of the sofa.

“Will you relax?” Jan teased. “I’m the one who should be nervous. I’ve never been around Cannon for longer than the time it took to say hello.”

The doorbell rang suddenly, and Margie actually jumped.

Jan stared at her incredulously. She’d never seen Margie so keyed up. “It’s okay,” she soothed, touching her sister’s rigid shoulder as she went to answer the door.

Margie stood up, gathering her nerve. He wouldn’t get the best of her, she thought stubbornly. She wouldn’t let him put her down again.

She heard voices: Andy’s pleasant, friendly one—and a deeper, harsher one.

Her fingers clutched her purse as Andy came into the room, followed by Cannon. Andy was almost Cannon’s height, but he lacked the bulk and muscular trim of his older brother. He had light brown hair and light brown eyes, and a face that combined strength and tenderness. He was good-looking, but Jan obviously thought he was the handsomest man alive—if her expression was anything to go by. Andy put a protective arm around her and bent to kiss her softly, despite Cannon’s disapproving glare.

“I think I’ve got that invitation—from Mother herself,” Andy whispered to Jan before he lifted his head. “Evening, Margie,” he added in a louder voice.

“Good evening,” Margie said quietly, her nervous gaze going to Cannon. He was taking in her appearance with an I-don’t-believe-it stare, and seemed to have missed the hushed exchange between Andy and Jan.

Cannon looked more formidable than ever. His evening clothes accentuated his masculinity until it was threatening. The dark material clung to powerful muscles that seemed to ripple under the expensive cloth as he moved. He was graceful for a man his size, and light on his feet. His hands were dark and big, and beautiful in their own way. He wore only a single gold signet ring, and a thin, fabulously expensive gold watch nestled in the thick hairs at the back of his wrist. Margie wondered if the rest of his sensuous body was covered in that same dark hair, and she caught her breath at her uncharacteristic thought.

Cannon’s thick hair gleamed almost black under the light; his deep-set brown eyes glared at Margie.

“Shall we go?” he asked brusquely. “I’d like to get an early night.”

“God forbid that we should hold you up, Mr. Van Dyne,” Margie said sweetly as she picked up her shawl and threw it around her shoulders.

“Don’t worry, you won’t,” he said quietly, watching her. “I didn’t picture you in a Victorian house, Mrs. Silver.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I can imagine what kind of house you did picture me in,” she said with a faint smile. “Sorry to have shocked you.”

“It will take more than your surroundings to convince me that my first impression wasn’t more accurate,” he replied.

“Why, Mr. Van Dyne, honey,” Margie murmured, batting her long eyelashes, “how you do go on.”

“You go on,” he replied, standing aside to let her lead them through the door, “before I lose what little patience I have left.”

Jan threw a worried glance her way, but Margie didn’t see it. She was already rushing to get out the door Cannon held open. She had a vague notion that he’d enjoy slamming it in her face.

* * *

The restaurant was crowded, but Cannon immediately attracted the attention of the ma;afitre d’, who seated them at a table beside an imitation waterfall, complete with lush vegetation.

“My God, the swamp,” Andy muttered as Cannon ordered from the wine steward.

Margie grinned. “Did you think to bring mosquito netting?” she whispered.

“We may need one of those sticky strips to catch the bugs….”

“Would you two children mind behaving while we’re in public?” Cannon asked curtly, glaring from one to the other.

“Yes, Daddy,” Margie said demurely, lowering her eyes.

Cannon seemed to swell with indignation as the waiter handed him a glass of wine from the bottle he’d ordered. He took a sip and nodded, waiting until the waiter filled the other glasses and left their menus before he spoke.

“You two may not be wildlife enthusiasts,” Cannon commented gruffly, while Margie almost burst out laughing at the misapprehension, “but you might at least appreciate the engineering that was responsible for this waterfall.”

Margie didn’t dare look at Andy; it would have been disastrous. Instead, she buried her nose in the menu. “It’s very nice,” she agreed, with a straight face. “If they forget to bring water and glasses, we can always dip in here.”

“Oh, Margie.” Jan groaned, burying her face in her hands.

A smothered, strangled sound emerged from Andy’s mouth before he slapped his napkin against it and faked a cough.

Cannon’s big hands were crushing a part of the menu. “If either of you order anything with alcohol in it, I’ll walk out and leave you,” he told Andy and Margie. “My God, are you already high on the scent of the wine?”

Margie lifted her composed face and glared at him.

“Margie,” Jan squeaked, “you did promise….”

Margie nodded, moving the wineglass toward Cannon. “You’re absolutely right, darling, I did. I won’t even wade in the fountain this time,” she added.

Cannon scowled at her. “How old did you say you were? Twelve?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “No fair,” she said. “This is supposed to be an opportunity for us to learn to get along.”

“It will take more than this,” he said flatly.

“Amen,” she agreed. “But I happen to be hungry, if you don’t mind not spoiling my appetite. I skipped breakfast and lunch.”

“That typewriter is going to be the death of you,” Jan murmured, and caught herself barely in time. She’d begged Margie not to mention her profession just yet. Cannon had enough against the flamboyant brunette without putting such a weapon in his hands.

“Typewriter?” Cannon caught the word immediately and stared pointedly at Margie.

Margie thought fast. “I do a political opinion column for our local weekly newspaper,” she said.

“And you skipped meals because that took all day?” he asked suspiciously.

“I do a political opinion column every week,” she returned, “and I have to keep at least two weeks ahead in case I decide to run away to Bermuda with my latest boyfriend.”

“God help your poor husband,” he growled.

“My husband is dead, Mr. Van Dyne,” she said quietly, sobering at once. “He was killed in an airplane crash five years ago. Now if you don’t mind, it’s a subject I’d rather we closed. It’s very painful.”

He looked embarrassed, studying her for a long moment before turning his disconcerting gaze to his menu.

Margie studied her own. Even though she could now afford the prices at better restaurants, these staggered her. Nothing was under twenty dollars and the least expensive item was a simple chicken breast stuffed with a ham and cheese filling. She wasn’t fond of chicken, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be obligated to Cannon Van Dyne, even for a meal.

“Shall I translate for you?” Cannon asked with grudging politeness when the waiter returned and stood beside her.

She smiled with studied sweetness. “How kind,” she murmured demurely, “but I think I can struggle through it.” She looked up at the waiter.
“Je prends la poule cordon bleu, s’il vous pla;afit,”
she said in flawless French,
“des pommes de terre Louis et des choux de Bruxelles.”

The waiter grinned at her, writing it all down.
“Avec plaisir, madame,”
he replied.
“Monsieur?”

Cannon shot her a glare while he ordered himself a steak, a baked potato, and a green salad. The order was given in clipped English and he was still glaring at her when the waiter went around to take the rest of the order from Andy.

“Not bad,” he said coolly, studying her. “Your French is quite good. Do you speak other languages?”

“Spanish,” she told him. “Italian. A little Arabic and some Hebrew. I love languages. They were my passion when I went to college.”

“What was your major?”

“Journalism,” she said. “I only went for two years, though.”

He frowned. “Why did you leave?”

Her face closed. “I got married.”

“Margie’s a gourmet cook,” Jan told Cannon when the silence lingered after the waiter had departed. “She’s quite good at it.”

“Is she?” Cannon asked, glancing toward Margie. “What’s your specialty?”

“Goose,” she shot back.

Something flared briefly in his dark eyes. “Thinking of mine?” he murmured softly. “Forget it, honey, that’s been tried by experts.”

Her green eyes sparkled. “I do pretty well with buttered toadstools and deadly nightshade,” she added. “But you’d probably thrive on that kind of diet.”

“Margie!” Jan groaned.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cannon told the younger woman. “She can handle herself, and so can I.” His dark eyes gleamed as he leaned back in his chair, carelessly holding the wineglass in his graceful hand. “I don’t mind stimulating conversation at the dinner table. It’s rather refreshing.”

“Why?” Margie asked sweetly. “Do people usually dive under the table when they disagree with you?”

He cocked his head. “It’s safer,” he murmured.

“By the way,” Andy interrupted, taking matters into his own hands, “I called Mother earlier this evening to tell her Jan was coming down to Panama City with us.”

Cannon lifted a bushy eyebrow at Andy’s confident tone. “So she told me. I had a conversation with her myself, and I’ve decided it might not be a bad idea for Jan to visit, after all. As a matter of fact, I suggested that Mrs. Silver might want to accompany her sister.”

The three of them stared at him in surprise, Jan and Andy elated, Margie horrified. “I don’t do a great deal of traveling, Mr. Van Dyne,” she finally said quietly. “And I do have certain…obligations.”

“You can take the typewriter with you,” Jan promised, her eyes pleading. Margie knew her sister was hoping she wouldn’t do anything to upset the apple cart.

Cannon’s eyebrows rose. “Do you have some new kind of fetish?”

“I most certainly do not,” Margie replied tightly. “I simply take my responsibilities seriously. The newspaper depends on my column….”

“You may certainly bring your typewriter, then,” he said.

“You can teach it to surf,” Andy put in, grinning.

Margie grinned back. “I’m still trying to teach it the alphabet,” she returned, winking at Jan.

“At least promise that you’ll consider the invitation,” Jan begged, and Margie nodded her agreement.

Cannon didn’t say anything, but he watched her. It was unnerving, that steady, unblinking scrutiny. Against her will, she looked up, and found her gaze trapped. Some faint sensation began to flower inside her—a tickling along her nerves, a trembling excitement that she’d never before felt. Electricity seemed to flow from his eyes to hers, so that she had to tear her gaze away before she burned up.

She lifted her fork and almost dropped it. She was more unsettled than she’d thought, she told herself.

After dinner, they went across the street to a disco, where Margie found herself alone with Cannon when Jan and Andy wandered off to dance to the throbbing, deafening music.

Cannon lit a cigarette with steady fingers and sipped the coffee he’d ordered for himself and Margie. He looked as out of place as Margie felt. She would rather have been back sitting by that little waterfall—she had only belittled it to irritate him.

“Having fun, honey?” he asked mockingly.

She gave him her sweetest smile. “Just as much fun as you are, Mr. Van Dyne,” she replied, raising her voice to make him hear her. “Don’t y’all just love this quaint little place?”

He glared at her and took another sip of his coffee. He apparently liked it black, because she hadn’t seen him take cream all evening. It wasn’t surprising. Somehow it suited his image.

“My God, I’m going deaf,” he said after a minute, pushing the cup aside. He had an actor’s voice, soft dark velvet even when it was raised. “Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here.”

She obeyed him only because the noise was deafening her, too. He went and said something to Andy before he came back to escort her out the door into the warm night air. She moved away from his hard fingers as soon as possible, disliking the sensations their touch caused on her bare arm.