Storm Over the Lake (3 page)

He actually grinned, his white teeth flashing in that dark, arrogant face. “You damned little rebel,” he shot right back at her. “Welcome to hell, Persephone.”

Her teeth ground together. “Thank you, Mr. Devil.”

A glint of admiration touched his dark eyes before the mockery and anger came back into them.

“Still not afraid of me, Dana?” he asked softly, and it was the first time he'd ever used her real first name.

“No.”

“That was why I hired you three years ago,” he told her. “Because you'd fight me.”

“You're the only person I ever have fought with,” she returned with a glare. “I get along with most people. It isn't in my nature to…”

“You don't know what your nature is yet,” he said. “We're going to work on that. I think your education has some gaps that need filling in.”

“School's out,” she said shortly.

“Just beginning,” he corrected. “It's time we got around to discussing the more mundane aspects of your new job.”

Somehow, she got through that hour, listening to his deep, measured voice, only
half hearing the instructions. It was three years ago, and she was in awe of him again. Involuntarily, her eyes traced every line of his face while he spoke, loving him all over again. How had she lived those years without seeing him, hearing him? How had she managed to survive, when just to be in the same room with him was all that she needed of paradise?

In between keeping those soulful glances hidden from him, she managed to digest the better part of her new duties. It was like old times. To stand between him and the outside world. To protect his privacy from intrusion. To make his appointments and reservations and see that he kept them, to take dictation any time of the night or day, to keep his social calendar and be his memory. And do it without any lip. And when he added that, she glared at him, and he grinned for the second time since her return.

He left her with three letters to type and a backlog of appointments to confirm or cancel, and she didn't move from the room
until it was time to clean up for the evening meal.

She took a quick shower and dressed in a beige jersey dress that clung to her “skinny” figure, and put her hair up in its familiar bun. In between wondering how she was going to look after her mother from this distance, and how harsh Devereaux's revenge was going to be, she felt the old, sweet fires beginning to kindle inside her. The sudden shock of seeing him gave her fluttery sensations in the pit of her stomach, and made her face glow with the bright flame of pleasure. She thrilled to the sound of his voice, deep and masculine and quiet. Her eyes closed as she sank into the armchair by her fireplace. Why did this house feel so much like home? It had, from the first time she saw it, so many years ago, big and imposing and immovable—just like its master. With a sigh, she got up and glanced at her pale face in the mirror, dominated by wide, soft brown eyes, and shook her head. She put a touch of pale pink lipstick on her mouth and went downstairs.

She felt his dark eyes on her while she tried to eat the delicious meal Lillian had prepared—which tasted vaguely like cardboard under the circumstances.

“Is your steak overdone, Meredith?” he asked across the short distance that separated them, sitting there like some dark monarch in his faultlessly tailored gold-patterned silk shirt and brown close-fitting slacks. The shirt was open just enough over his broad chest to be sensual, letting the dark mat of hair that covered the unyielding muscles peek out.

“My steak is just fine, thank you,” she replied smoothly. “I'm…not very hungry.”

He lifted his coffee up to his chiseled, wide mouth.

“Aren't you? I wonder why?” His lips curved as he studied her, his eyes narrow and glittering so that it was impossible to tell their color.

She glanced at him accusingly. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Devereaux?” she asked quietly. “This must be some
thing like sticking a sharp pin into a butterfly to see how much pain it can take.”

His dark, beautiful hand curved around his glass and he studied the burgundy shimmer of the wine under the light from the chandelier. “Pain can create a kind of pleasure, Meredith,” he said, and his eyes met her levelly. “It can even enhance the pleasure. You can't make wine without crushing the grape.”

“You must know a lot about crushing,” she murmured.

“I do,” he said matter-of-factly, leaning back in his chair with one arm curved over its back, straining the silk shirt across the powerful, broad muscles of his chest.

She dragged her eyes away from him, back down to her plate. “What…what about the new production method I was supposed to do a story on?” she asked. “Was that part of the fiction, too?”

“No. You'll get a look at that before you leave here. And a story, Meredith,” he said contemptuously. “My God, do you bleed ink? Is everything you do just part of the damned job?”

She flinched at the violence in his tone. “They say that a good reporter can pull copy out of the worst disaster,” she said in a subdued tone. Her eyes closed with the memory of the flood. “God help us, we can, too,” she added in a murmur.

He set the wine glass down with a thud and stood up. “As much as I'd love to continue this fascinating conversation,” he said, “I've got a date. Don't choke on your wine, Persephone.”

She watched him go, slinging his jacket over one arm, his step even, ruthless. He was in superb physical condition, an athlete who thrived on sports, and there wasn't a spare ounce of flesh on that broad, powerful body. He walked with a leonine grace, and she felt a stab of jealousy as she heard him go out the door. A date. A woman. She stared with blank eyes at the steak on her plate. And why not, he wasn't over the hill. He was still a virile, utterly masculine man. Naturally there would be women. There were women when she worked for him. It had hurt then, and it hurt now. She didn't have the so
phistication, or the charm to catch a man like Adrian Devereaux, and she knew it. That hurt most of all. With a tiny shudder, she pushed the plate aside and left the table.

“The Mister gone already?” Lillian asked as Dana started up the stairs to her room.

She managed a weary smile for the older woman. “In a blaze of glory,” she laughed.

“As usual. It's that Fayre Braunns again, I'll bet,” Lillian said darkly. “None of my business, of course, but that blonde dragon gives me goose bumps.”

“She's his…girlfriend?” Dana asked.

“His mistress,” Lillian corrected, with a smile at the shock on the other woman's face. “He's all man, honey. You can't expect him to be a saint, can you?”

She smiled. “He never was, I imagine. What's Fayre like?”

“Blonde, beautiful, and expensive, just like the ones before her. She's the latest in a string.” Her narrow eyes studied the young, blond sapling on the stairs. “You
make him keep his distance, young lady,” she said suddenly. “Don't let him hurt you. He can, you know. You're just a baby.”

Dana blushed. “You must know why he had me sent here,” she murmured, “and how much contempt…”

“I know what he says,” Lillian corrected. “The Mister's deep, and nobody can read him, not even me and I've been here eighteen years. But I think he sent for you for more than just a chance to get even. Be careful.”

“You don't need to tell me that he's dangerous,” Dana said quietly, turning toward the stairs. “He cost me my job and my peace of mind, and now he's going to keep me in bondage for six months. I'll bet in his spare time he teaches ants how to torture their aphids.”

Lillian tried to stifle a giggle and failed. “Just the same,” she said, sobering, “it's strange to me that he waited this long for vengeance.”

“Don't lose any sleep over it. I can take care of myself. I've been doing that for a
long time.” She gave Lillian a smile and started up the steps. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”

Dana almost laughed at that. It had been months since she'd slept well. Months…

 

She was in the middle of a business letter the next morning when the phone rang. She answered it absently, her mind on the letter and a clipped voice replied.

“Let me speak to Adrian,” it said shortly.

“He isn't here right now,” she replied in a businesslike tone. “May I take your number and have him return the call?”

“I'm just passing through,” the voice said after a slight hesitation. “My name's Dick Black—you may have heard him mention me, we were in Vietnam together. Gosh, I hate to leave town without saying hello, we shared a hooch and dodged bullets together!”

Dana hesitated. If she let his old buddy leave town without trying to get in touch with her boss, she knew she was going to catch it from both sides.

“Here,” she said abruptly, “let me give you his number at the office, and you can contact him there.”

“Hey, thanks, you're a pal!” came the cheerful reply.

It was only after she hung up that she remembered the old warning he hadn't bothered to reemphasize. Never, but never, give out his private number at work to anyone. But, she reminded herself, Dick Black wasn't anybody, surely. An old war buddy did have some privileges, didn't he? She went back to the letter she was typing and forgot about it.

It had been a busy day, and she was just finishing up when the front door opened with a violent snap. She tensed at the heavy, angry footsteps in the hall and turned just in time to meet a pair of slitted, glittering eyes in a face like thunder.

Adrian Devereaux slammed his attache case down flat on his big oak desk. With one hand deep in his pocket, he stood studying her grimly.

“Do you enjoy getting under my skin, Meredith?” he asked in a voice gone soft,
almost tender in his fury. “Do you lay awake nights thinking up ways to annoy me?”

She swallowed nervously, clutching her skirt in her fingers. “What have I done?” she asked, uneasily.

“What the hell do you think?” he growled, slamming his hand down palm first on the surface of the desk. “Are you working with the wire services on the side, or was that newsman some old friend you owed a favor to?”

“I…you know I'm not working for anybody except you,” she returned. “What newsman?”

“Good old Dick Black,” he shot at her.

She covered her mouth. “Oh, no,” she breathed.

“Oh, yes, and you needn't pretend you didn't know! Damn you, Meredith, I could shake you until your teeth break!” he said hotly, glaring at her. “If I told you once, I told you a half-dozen times to never,
never
give out my office number!”

“I know,” she whispered, “but he said…”

“To hell with what he said!” He glared at her across the desk, his face stony, his eyes like slits of fire. She felt her knees give way under the cut of his gaze.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, tears welling involuntarily in her eyes. The strain was getting to her—his hatred, worrying about her mother, the nightmares…

He froze, as if the reply wasn't the one he'd been expecting. “What?”

She turned away, fighting for composure, shaking her head as if to dismiss her reply.

“Meredith?” His voice was deeper than usual, quiet.

She drew herself together and let her eyes drift up to his collar, but no further. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

There was a pause while he lit a cigarette. Her eyes went to his heavily-lined face as he perched himself on the edge of the desk, and shot a glance at her.

“I want to give a party this weekend,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “At the cabin, for about twelve couples. Arrange it. Supper and snacks and booze.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want the caterer you used last…”

“Yes. And don't forget the music.”

“A live band?”

He glared at her. “Of course, Meredith, a live one.”

She flinched inwardly at the sarcasm and made herself a note on her steno pad, no outward sign of her emotional turmoil showing. That seemed to light a fire under his temper.

“I'll give you a list of the guests later,” he said in a voice that had suddenly chilled. “You're to call each one, individually, and confirm their attendance.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cool, aren't you?” he asked harshly. “Does anything touch you? Do you feel?”

“I feel what I have to,” she replied calmly, determined not to let him see her lose that hard won composure. She stood up, pale and drawn, but outwardly quite unruffled. “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes, damn you, that's all,” he said in a harsh whisper.

She walked out with her head high, the
tiny triumph bringing a smile to her lips as she went.

She hid in the kitchen with Lillian while waiting for him to calm down.

“Bad, huh?” Lillian asked with a conspiratorial whisper and with a smile.