Lead Me On (18 page)

"Like what?"

"You could help me here in the gift shop." She pointed to the box on the counter. "I was just about to unpack a shipment of dolls."

"Dolls?" An amusing blend of horror and intrigue contorted Chloe's face.

"It would give you something to do."

The girl pondered the idea, then shrugged. "Okay, sure. Why not? What do you need me to do?"

"Why don't you unpack the dolls and I'll check them off the invoice and make up price tags?" When Chloe nodded, Allison set the box on the multi-tiered display table she'd cleared, then pulled the barstool from behind the cash register. Hopping up onto the stool, she settled a clipboard on her lap to use as a desktop.

Chloe pulled the first doll out of the box and removed the protective plastic. Her eyes went wide as the doll stared back with movable glass eyes set in a hand-painted porcelain face. The doll's rose-pink mouth formed a little pout and a hint of color had been brushed onto the cheeks. The green bonnet that sat atop the silky black curls matched the velvet spencer and bell-shaped skirt.

"Kids actually play with these things?" Chloe made a face. "How do they keep from messing them up?"

"Oh, they're not to play with. They're for collecting."

"You mean like baseball cards?" Chloe asked.

"Something like that." Alli smiled. "The name will be on the tag sewn into the back collar of the dress."

Chloe turned the doll over and read the name. For a tomboy, she handled the dolls with surprising care, taking the time to fluff the dresses before setting them on the table. One doll in particular caught her attention. She held it awhile, studying the satin and lace ball gown that captured the romance of the Old South. "So, are these the kind of dresses Marguerite would have worn?"

"Um-hum." Allison nodded. "Pretty, aren't they?"

"I guess." Chloe smirked, but her fingers lingered on

the lacy trim. Allison suspected that when the girl hit sixteen, she'd be tossing out her baggy clothes in favor of form-fitting dresses, testing out lipstick and dabbing perfume behind her ears. The boys in New Orleans wouldn't stand a chance. "Can I ask you a question?"

"I suppose." Allison checked the doll off the packing list.

"What was Captain Kingsley like?"

"Oh, let's see." Allison stared into space. "Marguerite describes him as tall, broad-shouldered. He had long, black hair that he wore in a queue—"

"A what?"

"A ponytail, tied with black ribbon." Allison motioned toward her own nape.

"Like Adrian?" The girl's eyes lit with interest.

Allison nodded. "He wore full-sleeved white shirts with lace spilling from the collar and cuffs and a dashing red coat. His tight black breeches were tucked inside tall jackboots that came up to mid-thigh."

"Wow," Chloe breathed, as if her hormones had made another leap toward adulthood. Then she narrowed her eyes. "You're making that up."

"No, he was the quintessential captain of the high seas, only a lot cleaner and better smelling than most of the men who worked for LeRoche Shipping." Alli wrinkled her nose at the girl, hoping for a laugh.

Chloe stared thoughtfully at the doll, her brow creased in a frown. "Was Henri really as mean as you say?"

"I'm afraid so." Allison sighed. "He deceived Marguerite in every way. He overwhelmed her with romantic gestures the whole time he courted her, hiding his true nature until after they were married. Then he treated her as nothing more than a beautiful object for him to adorn in fine clothes and jewels and parade before the band of smugglers who worked for him."

"Why didn't she leave him?"

"Unfortunately, back then women had little or no recourse for escaping abusive marriages. She was a prisoner in this house. When Jack Kingsley came into her life, offering her acceptance, love, and understanding, she was afraid to trust him, to believe his love was real. She'd been lied to so often, she doubted him, and that was her downfall."

"What do you mean?" Chloe reached in the box for another doll.

"If she'd trusted Jack Kingsley and run away with him when he first asked her to, or if he'd fought harder to convince her, they both could have lived to grow old together."

"Why didn't he fight harder, if he loved her?"

"I don't know. That's always puzzled me."

"Maybe he was scared she didn't really love him," Chloe pointed out.

"I never thought of that." Allison straightened. "But that's so silly. She loved him desperately, which was why she was so scared. If his love had turned out to be false, it would have hurt her far worse than any of the other times people betrayed her."

Chloe grew silent for a while. "Do you really believe in ghosts?"

"I don't know." Allison glanced about. "Sometimes I feel things inside this house, sorrow, regret, longing, and I wonder if it's Marguerite's emotions I'm feeling, or my own."

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and she turned just as Scott appeared in the doorway. The sight of him quite simply stole the air from her lungs, as it did every time. He wore a short-sleeved dark print shirt hanging open over a black T-shirt and jeans. Her mouth watered at the thought of running her hands up under the T-shirt to feel his warm skin against her palms while she buried her nose in the crook of his neck and breathed in his scent.

"Hey, Chloe." He waved. "I was wondering where you were."

"Just here playing with dolls." The girl held one up.

Scott's eyes widened. "You feeling okay?"

"Yes." The girl smirked at him.

"Oo-kay." He turned to Alli. For one heart-stopping instant, their gazes held. She knew he saw the desire in her eyes and an answering hunger flickered in his own. Then the impersonal mask dropped over his features, breaking the connection. "I need to use the phone, if that's all right."

"Help yourself." She watched him turn and cross the hall, all her earlier questions tumbling through her mind.

"Are you sleeping with my uncle?" The question took a second to register.

"Chloe!" The clipboard nearly fell off Allison's lap. She grabbed for it, fumbled, then finally clasped it to her chest. "You don't ask things like that."

Chloe looked at her with too much knowledge for such young eyes. "So, you are?"

"No!" she answered too quickly, and flushed with guilt. Then realized it wasn't a lie. Outside of her daydreams and nighttime fantasies, they hadn't been together since that one night. "Even if I were, you simply don't ask people such things."

"I just wondered, is all." Chloe shrugged. "I see the way you look at him, and I figured you were after him. Lots of women are, you know. He's rich, he's famous, and he's good-looking. Not as good-looking as Adrian, but definitely not bad."

"Well, I'm not after him, I assure you. I like your uncle, yes, and we've become friends, but that's all." She set the clipboard back on her lap. "Now, where were we?"

"He looks at you that way, too."

"What?" A little thrill tingled to life before she could squelch it. "Never mind. Let's get back to work."

"Okay." Chloe shrugged. "I just thought you'd want to know, 'cause it really is kinda funny."

"What's funny?" The question popped out on its own.

Chloe grinned. "It's like he'll be fine one minute, just everyday Uncle Scott, then you walk into the room and his brain shuts off because all he can do is try to watch you without you catching him. Worst case of google-eyes I've ever seen."

So he did still want her. Allison looked away, caught in the unexpected pleasure of it.

"Hello." Chloe waved a hand before her face. "You wanna set up this display or not?"

"Hum?" She blinked.

"We're done unpacking the dolls. You wanna arrange them on the table?"

"Oh, uh ... no, I'll do it later."

"Google-eyes." Chloe shook her head, looking thoroughly disgusted. "I think I'll go see what Adrian is cooking. Maybe I can help him in the kitchen."

"Yes, all right." Alli nodded and followed Chloe to the doorway. "Thank you for your help."

When Chloe disappeared, she stared across the hall. Did Scott really watch her with "google-eyes"? The term in connection to someone so masculine should have made her laugh. Instead, she stood, breathlessly wondering.

From the office, she heard his voice. Just the sound of that deep rumble tugged at her. She cocked her head, not meaning to eavesdrop, but unable to resist listening.

"No, Hugh," she heard him say. "I am not negotiable on this. I know my contract says I have to turn in a proposal, but you and I both know what will happen if I do. Penny Nichols will start picking it apart, questioning everything, and this book will never get written. Besides, we don't have time for the proposal stage."

Silence fell as he listened to his agent and she found herself moving toward the doorway.

"I know that. But have you stopped to consider that this whole process is largely to blame for why I've been so blocked lately? I just want to write the book, turn it in, then let her pick it apart. I don't mind revisions, within reason, but I am sick to death of her questioning everything ahead of time."

She could see him pacing before the settee with the cordless phone pressed to his ear. Even dressed casually, he had a way of moving that spoke of confidence, cunning, and an aloof sort of power, as if he were apart from ordinary men.

Unattainable.

The word popped into her head, and she realized that had been his appeal all along. He was unattainable, not because his fame and fortune put him out of reach—she had too many famous relatives to think that—but because he was self-contained and had no desire to be otherwise.

How wonderfully safe that made him.

Smiling, she leaned on the doorjamb and took full advantage of the opportunity to watch him unobserved.

"Yes, I have an outline for my own use, but I'm not showing that to anyone. Are you nuts? It's just a bunch of handwritten gibberish. I gave her a title, the setting, and basic premise for the art department to start the cover. That's all she's getting."

He turned to face the windows, presenting her with a view of broad shoulders. Too bad his loose shirt hid the way his back tapered down to the tight set of buns inside his jeans. She knew they were there, though, could remember quite clearly the feel of those buns in her hands as he'd driven inside her.

"Hugh, that's blackmail! I thought you worked for me, not them." He paced some more, then stopped before the coffee table as something caught his eye. "Okay, fine." He bent forward to scoop up a hardcover book, teasing her with one quick glimpse of his denim-covered backside. "If Penny is that stuck on doing everything according to the letter of the contract, tell her the outline is on its way ... Yes, I'm serious. In fact, I'll send it right now."

Lowering the phone, he hit the off button and turned. He froze when he saw her, and she blushed at being caught gawking.

"I um, I was just ..." She made a vague gesture with her hand. "I couldn't help but overhear. I take it there's a problem?"

"Don't ask." He sighed. "Look, can I bum a piece of paper?"

"Certainly." Frowning in confusion, she went to the desk and took a seat so she could retrieve a sheet out of the printer.

He carried the book over to the desk, placed it down on the piece of paper, then took a pen and traced around it. Setting the book aside, he bent forward to write something. She was struck by the memory of the day he'd arrived, and felt as breathless now as she had then.