Holding the Dream (23 page)

She frowned at him. “I don't like the way you fight.”

“It always drove my sisters crazy. Suellen used to say I used logic like a left jab.”

“You've got a sister named Suellen?”

He raised an eyebrow. “From
Gone With the Wind
. My mother chose all our names from literature. Got a problem with that?”

“No.” She plucked at a speck of lint on her skirt. “It just sounds so southern.”

He chuckled, wondering if she realized she made the South
sound like another planet. “Honey, we
are
southern. Suellen, Charlotte as in Brontë, Meg from
Little Women
.”

“And Byron, as in Lord.”

“Exactly.”

“You don't have the poetic pallor or the clubfoot, but you do sort of have the dreamy good looks.”

“Flattery.” He kissed her lightly in response. “I guess you're feeling better.”

“I guess I am.”

“So.” He draped an arm over her shoulders. “How was your day?”

With a weak laugh, she turned her face, nuzzled it against the curve of his neck. “It sucked. It really, really sucked.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Maybe.” It wasn't really so hard to lean against a strong shoulder, she decided, if she just concentrated. “I should call Laura. I told her I would.”

“Josh will tell her you're with me. She won't worry.”

“She'll worry whether I call or not. Laura worries about everyone.” Kate let the silence soothe a moment, then began with Kusack's appearance at the shop.

Byron didn't interrupt, but listened, assessed, and considered.

“I don't think he believed me. The way he kept watching me, with this kind of cat patience, you know? When he mentioned my father, my brain just froze up. I knew I should have been prepared for it. Right from the start of this I knew that would be the worst and I should have been prepared. But I wasn't.”

“It hurt you,” Byron murmured. “More than any of the rest.”

“Yes.” She reached back, gripped his hand, baffled and relieved that he would understand so easily. “It hurt that this stranger, this cop, should damage the man I'm trying to remember. The one who used to spin ridiculous dreams for me, who I'm trying to believe only wanted the best for me. And
I can't defend him, Byron, because what he did is against everything I believe in.”

“That doesn't mean you didn't love your father and aren't entitled to remember the best parts of him.”

“I'm working on that,” she murmured. “The problem is I have to stay focused on what's happening now. It's harder than I imagined. When Kusack brought out the forms, I couldn't explain why they both had my signature. But Josh seemed to think it went well, especially that business with the security code.”

“Electronic thievery rolled in right along with the microchip. You said the siphoning off started about a year and a half ago. Who's had access to your computer during that time period?”

“Dozens of people.” Isn't that why it's all so hopeless? she thought. “There's not a big turnover at Bittle. It's a good firm.”

“So who needs money, who's smart, and who would point the finger at you?”

“Who doesn't need money?” she countered, irritated because her mind was refusing to travel a logical path. “Bittle hires smart, and I don't know anyone in the firm who has it in for me personally.”

“Maybe it wasn't personal so much as convenient. A cautious amount of money,” he murmured. “Like a test—or a way to offset small, annoying debts. And the timing, Kate, haven't you considered the timing?”

“I can't follow you.”

“Why now, why you? Is it just a coincidence that you should find out about your father at essentially the same time this skimming was noticed?”

“What else could it be?”

“Maybe someone else found out and used it.”

“I didn't tell anyone.”

“What did you do? The day you found out, what did you do?”

“I sat there at my desk, reeling. I didn't want to believe it, so I checked.”

He would have banked on it. “How?”

“I accessed the library back in New Hampshire, ordered faxes of newspaper articles, contacted the lawyer who handled the details. I hired a detective.”

He considered. Every one of those steps generated data. Phone records, computer records, paper trail. “And noted the data in your Filofax.”

“Well, yes, the names and phone numbers, but—”

“And the transmissions to and from New Hampshire were on your computer?”

“I—” She began to see, began to feel ill all over again. “Yes. The records of faxes sent and received. If someone wanted to look. But still, they'd have to have my password, and—”

“Which is noted in your Filofax,” he finished. “Who would be the last person questioned coming out of your office if you weren't there?”

“Any one of the partners, I suppose. One of the executive assistants.” She shrugged, unsurprised to find that her shoulders were tightening up again. “Hell, any of the other accountants on that floor. No one would think twice about seeing an associate breeze out of another associate's office.”

“Then we'll concentrate on those. The third Bittle you talked about. Who is it . . . Marty?”

“Marty wouldn't embezzle from his own company. That's ludicrous.”

“We'll see. Meanwhile, how do you think he'd react if you asked him to get you copies of the forms in question?”

“I don't know.”

“Why don't we find out?”
 

An hour later, Kate hung up the phone in Byron's kitchen. “I should have known he'd come through. He'll make copies as soon as he's able to and bring them to you at the hotel.” She worked up a smile. “It's like a little intrigue. I'm
surprised he didn't ask for passwords. He's actually enjoying it.”

“Our man on the inside.”

“I should have thought of this angle right from the beginning. Now I can add feeling stupid to the rest of it.”

“Emotions tend to cloud logic,” he told her. “Otherwise I might have hit on it earlier myself.”

“Well . . .” She wasn't sure she was ready to deal with that line of thought just now. “Anyway, Marty told me that they decided to turn it over to the police after my showdown the other day. His father's not happy about it, but the vote carried.”

“Do you regret facing up to them?”

“No, but there's going to be gossip now. Plenty of it.” Trying to keep it light, she smiled at him. “How do you feel about having an alleged embezzler of dubious lineage for a lover?”

“I think that requires a test.” He gathered her close, skimming his hands up her back and into her hair in the way she'd come to anticipate.

Her mouth lifted to his, opened for his. “I guess this means you're not going back to work this afternoon.”

“Good guess.” His mouth stayed busy as he circled her out of the kitchen.

“Where are we going? Haven't I already mentioned all this floor you have around here?”

He chuckled against her throat. “I haven't shown you my new sofa.”

“Oh.” She let him ease her back on the generous cushions. “It's very nice,” she murmured as his weight pressed her deeper into them. “Long.” His fingers parted her blouse, exposing her as she arched to his touch. “Soft.”

“We so rarely make it to the bedroom.” He lowered his head, nipped lightly at her breasts. “I wanted something . . . accommodating . . . on the main level.”

“Very considerate of you.” She gasped when his mouth closed over her, sucked her in.

It was so easy to let the heat take her, to spin her mind
away, to follow the demands of her own body. For pleasure. For sensation. For tastes and textures. She tugged his tie loose when his mouth sought hers again, loosened the buttons that prevented flesh from meeting flesh.

But he wouldn't let her hurry, and her impatience drained away until she was steeped and savoring.

Strong, broad shoulders, hair glorious gold at the tips, the subtle creases in his cheeks. That long, rippled torso. She luxuriated in the feel of those smooth hands gliding over her, lingering here, pressing there, then skillfully bringing her to a long, shimmering orgasm that poured through her system like warmed wine.

He thought it stunning to watch her, the flickers of pleasure and tension and release that played over her face. Arousal had blood rising to her cheeks, caused her eyes to darken and glow like rich, aged brandy. The body beneath his arched and flowed, quivered and grew erotically damp.

The taste of soap and salt between her breasts enchanted him. The feel of those narrow, restless hands enjoying his own flesh delighted him, darkly. The need to be in her, to join body to body and bury himself deep was overpowering.

He filled her, shuddering when those exotically female muscles clutched around him. Yet it wasn't enough.

He pulled her up until her arms were wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist. With his mouth he swallowed each of the moans that trembled from her throat, then raced his lips over that long white column where a pulse beat like fury.

She panted out his name, blinded by the single primal urge to reach the summit. Her hips pumped, jackhammer quick, as the craving grew maddening, the pleasure unbearable. She was willing to beg, if only the words would come, but instead she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

It flashed through her like an overstoked furnace, hot and violent. Stunned and helpless, she clung, then felt the magic pulse between them as he poured himself into her.

* * *

The phone awakened her an hour later. Disoriented, Kate fumbled for the receiver before she remembered she wasn't home. “Yes, hello.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number. I'm calling Byron De Witt's residence.”

Dazed, Kate stared around the room. The antique oak chest of drawers, the warm green walls and white curtains, the clever watercolor seascapes. A thriving ornamental lemon tree in a glazed pot in front of the window. And the lulling, ceaseless sound of the sea.

Byron's bedroom.

“Ah . . .” She sat up, rubbing a hand over her face. Cool ivory sheets slipped down to her waist. “This is Mr. De Witt's residence.”

“Oh, I didn't realize he'd gotten a housekeeper already. I expect he's at work. I was just going to leave a message on the machine for him. Tell him Lottie called, won't you, honey? He can reach me anytime this evening. He's got the number. 'Bye now.”

Before Kate was fully awake, she was staring at the receiver and listening to the rude buzz of a dial tone.

Housekeeper? Lottie? He's got the number? Well, fuck.

She slammed down the phone and scrambled up. The scent of him was still on her skin, and he was getting calls from some bimbo named Lottie. Typical, she decided, and looked around for her clothes. Which were, she recalled, downstairs where he'd left them when he carried her up to bed. Ordered her to take a nap. And she'd been so softened by lovemaking that she meekly obeyed.

Hadn't she told herself from the start that men like him were all the same? The better-looking they were, the more charming they were, the bigger scum they were. Men who looked like Byron had women crawling all over them every day of the week.

And he'd said he thought he loved her. What a crock. Energized with righteous fury, she marched downstairs and snatched up her clothes. Scum. Swine. Slime. Ignoring her
hose, she struggled into skirt and blouse, fumbling with her buttons as he came through the deck door with the dogs at his heels.

“Thought you'd still be sleeping.”

She eyed him narrowly. “I bet you did.”

“I took the dogs for a run on the beach. We should go down later. The storm's brought some nice shells in.” He walked into the kitchen as he spoke. Swaggering like a gunslinger, she followed. “Want a beer?” He twisted the cap off one, guzzled. As he lowered the bottle, he caught the glint of steel in her eyes. “Problem?”

“Problem? No, no problem at all.” Before she could stop herself she'd bunched up her fist and plowed it into his belly. It was like hitting rock. “Be sure when you see Lottie you tell her I'm not your goddamn housekeeper.”

He rubbed his belly more in surprise than discomfort. “Huh?”

“Oh, brilliant. You always have such a sharp riposte, De Witt. How dare you? How dare you say the things you said to me, do the things you did, and have some . . . some tramp named Lottie on the side?”

It wasn't quite clear, but he thought he was starting to catch up. “Lottie called?” he ventured.

She made the same sound in her throat that he'd heard once or twice before. As much for her sake as his own, he held up a hand and backed off. “You're going to hurt yourself if you hit me again.”

Her gaze shifted, lingered on the kitchen block filled with black-handled knives. He didn't believe it, not for an instant. But he stepped between her and the sharp implements.

“Now, I'm going to guess that the phone woke you up, and it was Lottie. And Lottie, by the way, is not a tramp.”

“I say she is, and either way, you're still a lying, two-timing scum. How long did you expect to get away with telling her I was your housekeeper? And just what were you going to tell me she was?”

He studied his beer for a moment, tried to keep the gleam
out of his eyes when they met hers. “My sister.”

“Oh, very original. I'm out of here.”

“Not so fast.” It wasn't much of a challenge to grab her one-armed around the waist and haul her to a chair. She was kicking, swinging, but he managed it easily. “Lottie,” he said as he shoved her in place again, “
is
my sister.”

“You don't have a sister named Lottie,” she fired back. “You idiot, you told me your sisters' names just a few hours ago. Suellen, Meg, and—”