Dangerous Ladies (40 page)

But if she didn’t confess, she was stuck here.

Stuck. Here. At Waldemar. At her grandparents’ home, looking for a painting she desperately needed, and which was nowhere in sight.

Her plan had been simple.

She turned over to stare at the fireplace. That pompous old gentleman mocked her.

No matter how many times she stared at it in disbelief, it never changed. It was the wrong damned picture.

H
ow was that possible?

In Meadow’s pocket, the key poked her in the hip. Pulling it out, she looked at the length of silver, the huge teeth, the ornate handle. This she should hide. She might need it again.

Hearing Devlin’s footsteps, she hastily poked the key between the couch cushions and the back, down far enough that it wouldn’t be easily discovered by the cleaners.

Lightning danced across the portrait, making the haughty gentleman’s eyes glint with disapproval. She didn’t care. Disapproval of any sort was of no importance to her. Finding the right painting was.

She reclined just as Devlin Fitzwilliam walked back into the room. She looked up at him.

He looked so . . . tall. And . . . austere. And . . . intent. On her.

If he gave a damn about Dr. Apps, he hid his interest well.

“Ready for bed?” Without waiting for an answer, he scooped her into his arms and headed toward the door. “Tell me if you feel sick.”

“I’m fine.” Except for the fact that he held her against him as comfortingly as a man might hold his beloved wife—and she liked it. She almost felt he wanted her here.

He climbed the long, elegant sweep of stairs. The place smelled of fresh paint and wallpaper glue, and everywhere she looked she saw antique lamps, gilt-framed mirrors, and designer touches that echoed an elegant age. Waldemar had been refurbished into a showcase of comfort and ease.

“It looks great,” she mumbled.

“The house? Yes, it came out well.” His gaze roamed the corridor, and he looked grimly pleased. “We have a saying in Charleston. ‘Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.’ Bradley Benjamin didn’t have the money to maintain the old girl like she deserved. I did the house a favor when I bought it from him.”

“And him? Did you do him a favor, too?” So that was why Bradley had sold the house? He was broke?

“No. Old Benjamin and I have a deal—I don’t do him favors, and he doesn’t call me a bastard. At least, not to my face. Not very often.” He turned sideways as he went through a doorway. He carried her through a sitting room decorated with masculine furniture in claret tones. “Here we go.”

She caught a glimpse of a huge, lush bedroom painted a warm gold and touched with claret highlights. They entered a huge en suite bathroom with swathes of black marble, a black tub, a sleek and gigantic glass shower done in claret tile, and fresh gold chrysanthemums in blue Chinese vases.

He placed her on the counter, her head against the wall, her feet in the sink. The cold from the marble leaked through her slacks, chilled her flesh, and brought her halfway to perkiness.

“I imagine you want to use the bathroom before you go to bed.” He looked down, his eyes hooded and enigmatic, and he didn’t take his arms away.

“Yeah.” He was warm. Toasty.

“Can you manage on your own, or shall I . . . ?” He tugged at the hem of her black turtleneck T-shirt.

“Hey!” She caught at his hand. “I can do it!”

A lovely sort of half smile cocked his mouth. “Are you sure?”

She wouldn’t have thought it, but this austere man looked almost . . . charming. “I can do it. You go out. If I need help, I’ll call.”

“Promise? I don’t want you to hit your head again.”

“None of us want that. I’ll call you if I need to.” She turned, dangled her feet off the counter, and watched as he strolled away.

“There are new toothbrushes and whatever else you need in the top drawer. There’s a robe on the hook by the shower.” He walked with a long-legged grace that made her fingertips tingle.

She would really enjoy touching his ass.

He turned at the door and lifted his eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t need me?”

Maybe. But not for the reason he was thinking.

She slid to her feet. “I’m not dizzy. I’m not sick.”

“You just don’t remember who you are.”

“I certainly don’t remember being your wife.”

“I promise I’ll do everything in my power to remind you.” He studied her openmouthed consternation, then firmly shut the door behind him.

“Oh, no, you won’t!” she said to the closed door.

It didn’t answer.

She looked into the mirror at her pale, strained face, at the white bandage partially taped to her hair, at the faint smear of blood on her forehead.

She’d lived through the last two grueling years with her faith in good thoughts and good living intact. She’d faced the challenges with a smile, knowing she kept everyone’s spirits up.

Now she looked like hell. She felt like hell. And she blamed Devlin Fitzwilliam.

Her mother would make the case that Meadow was responsible for the events of the day.

In an excess of guilt, love, and determination, Meadow dropped her head into her hands. Her mother. If her mother knew where Meadow was and what she was doing . . . Meadow moaned at the thought.

“You need to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep,” she said to herself. “Tomorrow you’ll know what to do.” Because tonight she was so confused.

She had lied to Devlin about having amnesia. Did he believe her?

Of course not. He didn’t, did he?

He’d lied about their being married. If he didn’t believe she had amnesia, then he knew she knew they weren’t married.

Possibly he was trying to wring a confession out of her. But it didn’t feel that way. The way he acted, he wanted her here. And why? What was he up to?

Worried, she pulled off her sweater. On a good day, her boobs were an A cup, and this athletic bra mashed her flat. She didn’t have much of a rear end, either, and her black leggings, the ones she wore to yoga, hugged her body. Devlin had seen the package, so clearly he wasn’t after her voluptuous body.

She leaned on the counter and stared into the mirror.

Or her face, which at this moment looked singularly cheerless and unappealing. And unattractively pale and sweaty. And worried. Really worried.

So what was he after? What did he want? What was his plan—and
why
? Why was he doing this?

She opened the drawer and found every soap and lotion a woman could want, all in sample-size bottles. She brushed her hair back and washed her face, avoiding the bandage. She slipped out of her shoes, her pants, her socks, and dropped them in a heap on the floor. She put on the plush white bathrobe. Like all hotel robes, it was huge. The hem brushed her at midcalf, and she had to roll up the sleeves to see her hands. She tied the belt into a knot, then opened the door.

The bedroom was empty.

He hadn’t gone far. He’d promised to come if she called, and she recognized a man who kept his word.

She climbed into the tall four-poster bed and sighed as the mattress,
the pad, the cool, soft sheets enveloped her. She pulled the comforter up; it was light yet lavish. Nine feet above her, the ceiling glowed the same warm gold color as the wall, and the intricate cove molding was painted to look like cherrywood.

The artist in her admired the craftsmanship. The exhausted woman wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and go to sleep.

Except . . .

Did
this guy want her here? A weird idea—but why else would he tell such a whopper of a lie? Why would he say she was his wife, and go through such incredible gyrations to keep her at . . . what did he call it? The Secret Garden?

She knew only one thing for sure—his reasons for trapping her here could not be good.

Meadow’s beautiful blue eyes, the eyes that had betrayed her, were closed in slumber. Her copper-tinted hair glowed like a nimbus on the pillow around her face, and the flickering lightning caught each shining strand. Her skin was tinted like a peach and was—Devlin ran his fingertips over her cheek—just as soft. Her lower lip was rosy and slightly swollen—every time she told her silly lie, she bit into the tender skin.

The doctor’s bandage was a large white blot on her forehead, and that, combined with the dark circles under her eyes, gave her a fragile appearance.

He suspected that was a mirage.

He knew so much about her already—and so little.

She had a name, Meadow. But he didn’t know exactly who she was.

She was a thief, and here for a reason. But he didn’t know what it was.

When it came to art, she had a discerning eye. But he didn’t know what she did.

Yet he knew more than she could ever imagine. People in the
South had embarrassingly long memories, especially when a scandal was involved, and Meadow’s grandmother had been the biggest scandal in a generation. No one in Amelia Shores had ever stopped talking about Isabelle, or her affairs, or how thoroughly she had humbled the proud Bradley Benjamin.

Devlin had never met Isabelle, but he liked her.

For years, when he was young, Bradley Benjamin had made Devlin’s life hell. The reasons were myriad and diverse—two hundred and fifty years of rivalry between the Fitzwilliams and the Benjamins, Bradley Benjamin’s old-fashioned dislike for successful women like Devlin’s mother, and most of all, Bradley Benjamin’s pure, unmitigated hatred for a child born out of wedlock. A bastard.

Like Devlin.

Bradley despised him. And why?

Because Devlin reminded Bradley of his own well-publicized failure, and the humiliation that had followed him ever since.

So when the opportunity for revenge presented itself, Devlin had seized Waldemar, storming the ancient bastion of Benjamin superiority. Even better—the sheer stupidity and incredible incompetence of Benjamin’s own son had been the reason he’d been able to obtain their ancestral home as his own. And what a lovely, delicious dollop of warm pleasure on the cold dish of revenge—rather than living in the home, which Bradley would have hated and mocked, Devlin had turned the grand old mansion into a posh hotel.

That was what bastards did.

He smiled down at Meadow, an unpleasant curve of the lips.

Now, sleeping in his bed was the possibility of more and even better revenge.

Would Bradley Benjamin recognize Isabelle’s granddaughter?

Probably.

Would he wait and cringe, fearing that moment when everyone in Amelia Shores identified her, and all the gossip started up again?

Definitely.

Would he give a damn that Devlin had married her?

Yes. Just . . . yes.

Bradley Benjamin hated Isabelle, but she had once been his, and if there was one trait Devlin shared with Bradley, it was their possessiveness about their property. He would hate to think of his former wife’s granddaughter in the filthy clutches of the Fitzwilliam bastard.

Devlin touched Meadow’s throat and noted the contrast between his tanned hand against her fair, freckled skin.

Bradley would hate to think of Devlin and Meadow thrashing together on a bed.

Best of all, the whole maneuver would cost Devlin nothing.

Well . . . except the investigation into Meadow’s background.

He didn’t know exactly who she was—according to gossip, she didn’t exist—but by the time his detective had finished with her, Devlin would know her age, her birth weight, and the names of every man she’d ever dated.

Taking Meadow’s cell phone, he flipped it open.