The Tycoon and the Townie

“Kate?” He was waiting for an answer to his question.

“I’ll be—fine,” Kate muttered, blowing a sand fly out of her face. “Just get me back to my Jeep so I can drive home and forget this whole wretched afternoon!”

“You didn’t have to go into the water,” he said. “With the heavy surf, and you in all that padding, you should have known what would happen.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” Kate snapped. “I was concerned about my daughter—and yours. And speaking of our daughters, how far ahead of us are they? Can you see them?”

“They’re just over the top of the dune. They’ll be fine.”

“Except that Flannery is probably filling your Ellen’s head with more of that fantasy nonsense—oh, I saw your face when Ellen said she’d heard the mermaids. Your expression was definitely not a pretty sight.”

“Here.” He reached back, caught her hand, and yanked her up to his own level on the dune. “I want to be able to talk to you without getting a kink in my neck,” he explained.

“So talk.” Kate feigned an indifferent shrug, her saltsoaked bra straps chafing her tender flesh. “See if you can tell me anything I haven’t already figured out.”

“I was hoping that chip on your shoulder had washed off in the ocean.”

“No such luck. But at least I’m willing to listen.”

“I’ll take that into account.” He climbed in silence for the next few steps, his fingers still gripping hers. His palm was as smooth as fine Italian leather—but then, Jefferson Parrish III had probably never lifted anything heavier than a cricket bat. Maybe that was how he’d broken that quirkily gorgeous nose of his.

“This probably sounds stuffy, but I don’t know how else to explain it,” he said, his free hand swinging her clown shoes, which he’d gallantly fished out of the surf. “We Parrishes are raised with certain values—ethics, if you will. We take pride in passing those values down from one generation to the next.”

Like congenital arrogance, Kate almost said, but she managed to bite back the words.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. But family tradition is a serious matter. I was raised the way my father was raised, and his father and grandfather before him—to value honesty and hard work, to do one’s best in every effort and to shun anything that smacks of falsehood or frivolity—”

“Such as fairy tales. And mermaids.”

“Exactly.”’He sounded so smug that Kate could have punched him.

“But Ellen’s just a little girl—”

“We raise our girls the same way. My older sister is a neurosurgeon. One of my aunts was a civil engineer. Another taught physics at Radcliffe—”

“And what if Ellen doesn’t want to become a surgeon or an engineer or a physicist?”

His penetrating scowl knotted the thick, dark brows above his steely eyes. “You’re missing the point, Kate. Ellen will be free to become whatever she chooses. But as her. father, it’s my duty to see that her choices are based on sound, realistic principles.”

“I see.” Kate wiped a sweat bead off her nose. Overhead a pair of gulls wheeled and cried in a giddy mating dance. “And what if Ellen makes mistakes?” she asked. “What then?”

“If I do my job as a parent, that’s unlikely to happen. Most mistakes, after all, are based on unrealistic expectations.”

“But hasn’t anyone in your family ever made a mistake? For heaven’s sake, haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

She felt his hand go rigid, then withdraw from hers as they rounded the top of the dune. “You ask too many questions, Kate Valera,” he said coldly. “Come on, let’s catch up with our daughters and get you back to your Jeep.”

Kate clung to her silence, keeping a tight rein on her emotions as they trooped down the leeward slope toward the house. Jeff Parrish was the last person who deserved her sympathy, she told herself. The man was too cocksure, too boastful of a family tradition that turned children into little automatons with no freedom to dream and imagine. Worse, he was raising his sensitive daughter to be a copy of his cold, success-driven self. The whole situation was deplorable!

So why, as her gaze outlined the back of his elegantly rugged head, was her mind flitting through visions of cradling that head in the warm furrow between her breasts while her fingers tunneled the rich, dark silver of his hair?…

Merciful heaven, maybe she was the one who needed a healthy dose of reality!

She could see the girls now. They were skipping down the slope of the dune, hand in hand, as if they’d been friends for years. And even that was odd, Kate reflected. Flannery had always been a loner, choosing the world of her own creative imagination over the company of other children. What would draw her to a shy child like Ellen Parrish?

But the answer made no difference, Kate reminded herself bitterly. After today’s fiasco, the two little girls would not be allowed to see each other again.

Mrs. Parrish had come out of the house. She strode across the lawn like a clipper under full sail, her purple dress fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Where the grass lost itself at the foot of the dune, she paused, wringing her hands in a classic portrait of agitation.

“Ellen!” she called. “Where have you been, child? Don’t you realize what bad manners it shows, wandering away from your little guests like that? If you want those nice young ladies to be your friends—”

“It’s all right, Mother.” Jeff had sprinted ahead to catch up with the girls, leaving Kate to trail in at her own pace. “I’ll speak with Ellen alone after she’s had a chance to think about what she did.” He turned on his daughter with an imperious frown. “Upstairs with you now, Ellen. You’re not to come down again until we’ve talked. Understand?”

“Can’t Flannery come with me?” Ellen clung to her new friend’s hand, eyes wide and imploring.

“I’m sorry, Ellen, but Flannery has to go home now.” Kate elected to play the meanie—anything to end this miserable farce and make her getaway.

“But she can come back tomorrow, can’t she?” Ellen persisted. “Oh, please let her come!”

“Go upstairs, Ellen.” Jeff’s eyes were granite slits. “Now.”

With a heartrending sob, Ellen broke her grip on Flannery’s hand and fled toward the house.

“Mom, can’t I—”

“Be still, Flannery, you’ve caused enough trouble for one afternoon.” Kate clasped her daughter’s shoulder. Then, struggling for dignity in her smeared makeup and waterlogged costume, she squared her chin and turned back toward Jefferson Parrish III and his imposing mother.

“We’ll be going now,” she declared. “And please don’t worry about paying the agency for my time, Mrs. Parrish. I’ll make sure they know that this performance was on…me.”

It was all Kate could do to get the words out before the waves of anger and humiliation swept over her. Jeff Parrish held out her shoes. She snatched them out of his hand and spun away, her throat jerking as she led her daughter across the lawn to the road, where the Jeep was parked.

Summer people!

Chapter Three

Jeff was hauling chairs and tables into the storage shed when he stumbled over the green duffel lying open on the grass. Only after he’d caught his balance did he realize what he’d found. “Damn,” he muttered, his emotions slamming between dismay and a strange, primitive elation. “Damn.”

He stood still for a moment, the lonesome cry of a kittiwake echoing in his ears. Inky clouds were swirling in over the dunes. The breeze carried the cool smell of rain. Kate would need the duffel before her next Jo-Jo performance, he reminded himself. He would have to get it back to her.

Jeff exhaled slowly, then, drawn by an urge too strong to resist, lowered himself to a crouch and began rummaging through the contents of the faded canvas bag. If he could find an address, or a phone number—

But who was he kidding? It was plain male curiosity that was driving this search. The odd little clown with the sexy voice had gotten to him in a most unsettling way, and he was looking for a clue—any clue—about the woman beneath that padding and greasepaint. A driver’s license photo, an article of clothing…

But the bag held no surprises. There was nothing inside except clown props—a small boom box and an assortment of tapes, the fluorescent balls from the juggling act, a sack of leftover balloons, a bag of cheap party favors and a battered tin fishing-tackle box that contained brushes, tissues, cold cream and tubes of greasy stage makeup. There was nothing of real interest—except for a name and address scratched inside the tackle box lid.

Frank Valera, 81 Seacove Road, Misty Point, N.C.

Jeff frowned pensively as he latched the box and zipped it inside the duffel bag. Kate had mentioned that she was single. So who was Frank Valera? Her brother? Her ex?

But what did that matter? Jeff reminded himself as he tossed the duffel in the trunk of his silver-gray BMW and slammed the lid. Kate’s private life was none of his business. He would return her things, drive home, and that would be the end of it.

The end?

The end of what?

For Pete’s sake, he barely knew Kate Valera. He wasn’t even sure what she looked like. He was making altogether too much of this, Jeff berated himself as he carted the last few folding chairs into the shed and padlocked the door. Maybe he’d spent too many months living like a blasted monk, cloistered in his work. Maybe it was time he came out of his shell and found himself a woman—a genteel, socially accomplished lady who would set a fine example for his daughter.

The wind was picking up. It raked Jeff’s hair as he strode toward the house. It rippled the grass and lashed his face with the first cool raindrops. Lightning crackled blue fire above the dunes, its resounding thunderclap echoing over the ghostly hiss of the ocean.

Mermaids!

Yes, it was time he had that talk with Ellen.

The rain was splattering down by the time Jeff reached the front steps. He sprinted across the wet verandah and hurried inside through the front door.

The house was silent except for the staccato patter of raindrops against the glass. Jeff was shutting an open window when he remembered that his mother had gone out for early dinner and a movie with Mrs. Frances Appleton, who lived up the road. Floss, the cook, had the evening off—so much the better, Jeff resolved. He would build a fire, then make Ellen some hot cocoa and toasted cheese sandwiches. The two of them could enjoy an evening alone reading or playing a few games of checkers, and there would be plenty of opportunity to talk her out of this mermaid nonsense before bedtime.

There was the matter of Kate Valera’s bag. But—yes— he could return it after his mother came home. Maybe he would give Kate a call about it later if her number was in the book. The thought of hearing that delicious, raspy little voice in his ear…

“Ellen…” he shouted from the foot of the staircase. “Hey, come on down, and I’ll make us some supper!”

The only answer was the sound of rain.

“Ellen?” He started up the stairs, wondering why she hadn’t replied. He’d been a bit harsh with her earlier, but it wasn’t like his daughter to sulk.

“Hey, answer me! This isn’t funny!” He reached the landing and paused, listening. Outside, thunder boomed across the sky and raindrops splattered the wooden shingles. Inside, the silence was louder than the storm.

“Ellen!” He raced down the hall toward the closed door of her room. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and couldn’t hear him. Maybe…

His heart stopped as he reached the door and flung it open. Ellen’s small neat room, with its white ruffled bedspread and framed Renoir prints, was empty.

Kate stepped out of the shower, flung a towel around her short, auburn hair and shrugged into her thick, green terry robe. The steamy air surrounded her like a blanket. She inhaled its damp warmth, forcing the afternoon’s events to the back of her mind. Yes, she was doing better. Maybe after a cup of good, hot herbal tea, she would feel almost human again.

She opened the bathroom window to clear the steam. Outside, the storm had grown savage. Rain battered the sides of the small clapboard house. Wind lashed the oleander bushes and tore at the wisteria vine Kate had trained with such patience, threatening to rip its tendrils from the eaves. The roiling clouds matched the stormy hue of Jeff Parrish’s eyes.

Kate pattered down the hallway to her room, tossed the towel on the bed, and finger-combed the tangles out of her hair. Forget Jeff Parrish, she admonished herself. The man was a hopeless, hidebound snob, and she pitied any woman addlepated enough to give him a second glance.

As for his ridiculous family tradition—

A knock at the front door, faint but insistent, shattered her train of thought. Kate hesitated; then, remembering she’d remanded Flannery to her room, she knotted the sash on her robe and hurried down the hall. As she raced across the living room, the weak tapping, like the peck of a stormtossed bird, grew more urgent, more frantic.

She flung open the door to find a small, forlorn figure trembling on the stoop.

“Ellen!” She swept the little girl inside. Jeff Parrish’s daughter was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, all soaked with rain. Water dripped off the end of her nose and streamed down her hair to puddle on the floor.

Kate seized a knitted afghan off the couch and flung it around the shivering little body. There would be time for questions later. Right now she had to get the child warm and dry.

Racing back down the hall, she snatched an armful of towels from the bathroom shelf. She returned to find that Flannery had come out of her room. “Get Ellen some dry clothes,” Kate ordered, letting the violation pass for now. “Something warm. Then, young lady, you’ve got some explaining to do!”

“Can Ellen stay here? Please—”

“Flannery, you’re really pushing it!”

“I only drew her a map to our house,” Flannery said. “I didn’t know she’d be coming here tonight, in the rain.”

“Go on,” Kate sighed. “Get the clothes. We’ll deal with what you did later.” She took the thickest towel and began blotting rainwater from Ellen’s long, black hair. The child’s father and grandmother were probably frantic. As soon as she got Ellen dried off, Kate resolved, she would hurry to the phone and call them.

Ellen had begun to respond to the warm blanket and vigorous toweling. The color had returned to her cheeks. Her shy, gray eyes explored the room, lingering on the plump, orange tabby curled among the sofa cushions.

“What’s his name?” she asked, her teeth still chattering a little.

“Her name. It’s Mehitabel. She’s named after a cat in a book of poems.”

“Can I pet her?”

“As soon as you’re dried off.” Kate tugged the neck of the soggy, pink T-shirt over Ellen’s ears. “I don’t suppose your father knows where you are, does he?”

Ellen shook her head, rosebud lips pressed tightly together as the shirt pulled free of her head. Her eyes, when she looked at Kate, were large with wonder.

“Are you…the clown?”

Kate chuckled in spite of herself. “That’s right, dear. This is the real me. Or maybe it’s Jo-Jo who’s the real me. After a day like this one, I’m not so sure.”

“And do you believe in mermaids?”

A warning flickered in Kate’s mind. “I believe in the gift of imagination,” she said, tucking the afghan around Ellen’s bare chest and shoulders. “Hang on a sec, and I’ll see if Flannery’s found you some dry clothes. Then you can pet Mehitabel while I call your—”

The rap at the door was fierce and urgent. Kate froze, her mouth suddenly dry, her pulse jumping like a beached pompano. There was no need to wonder who was outside, or to question what was going through his mind. Any way you looked at it, the next few minutes were not bound to be pleasant.

Steeling herself for the confrontation to come, Kate squared her shoulders and marched across the room to answer the door.

Kate’s house had not been difficult to find. Jeff remembered it, in fact, from the summers of his boyhood—a lowslung structure that clung to the rim of the beach, its clapboard exterior so weathered that the house looked more like an outsize hunk of driftwood than a dwelling place. An elderly man had lived here back then, Jeff recalled, a salty, reclusive old codger he’d often seen shuffling along the edge of the tide with his two mongrel dogs.

But never mind the past—it was Kate Valera who lived here now. Through the drizzling curtain of rain, he could see her Jeep parked in the makeshift carport. He could see the faint glow of light through curtained windows—and as he raised his hand to knock again, Jeff could only hope to heaven she would know something about Ellen.

The door opened before his knuckles could strike again. The woman who stood before him, haloed by the lamplight behind her, was even smaller than he remembered. Her damp, reddish curls spilled around a sharp little fox face that seemed to be mostly eyes. Her hands tugged nervously at the sash of a thick green bathrobe that looked about four sizes too big for her.

“Ellen’s here,” she said calmly. “Come on in.”

Jeff stepped across the threshold, dimly aware of the light and warmth that enfolded him as he did so. Relief jellied his knees as he spotted his daughter huddled in the corner of a flowered sofa, her arms embracing an immense, mustard-colored cat.

Fear dissolved into anger as he took a step toward her. “Young lady, do you have any idea what—”

“Please don’t be mad, Daddy.” Her sad-eyed gaze tore at his heart. “It’s so lonesome in the house. There’s nobody there but grown-ups. I just wanted to play with Flannery for a little while.”

“And how did you know where to find Flannery?” Jeff demanded, but more gently this time. He knew how much his daughter needed a friend her own age. He’d seen it that afternoon, from the window.

“I can answer your question,” Kate said. “Flannery drew her a map.”

“So, Ellen just showed up on your doorstep in the rain?”

“Of course she did.” Kate glared at him as if he’d just accused her of kidnapping. “I was about to phone your house when you knocked.” She walked away a few steps, then turned to face him again. “And now that your daughter’s safely found, I suppose you’ll both be going.”

Jeff’s eyes measured her where she stood, poised like a gazelle beside an open cabinet that overflowed with books. Her small, square chin was thrust defiantly upward. Her eyes blazed wounded pride. Still hugging the cat, Ellen watched them in expectant silence.

No, Jeff realized, he couldn’t be so monstrous as to grab his daughter and walk out. He couldn’t do that to Ellen. He couldn’t do it to Kate—or to himself.

“I—uh—think we need to talk,” he muttered, suddenly aware that his clothes were dripping water onto her faded Persian rug.

“All right.” Her body relaxed but her eyes remained guarded. “Flannery, dear, I know you’re listening.”

The child materialized from the hallway.

“Take Ellen to your bedroom for a little while, okay? And make sure you get her into something dry.”

“Yes!” Flannery’s grin lit the room like a flash bulb. “Come on, Ellen!” she exclaimed, bounding over to the couch. “You can wear my purple sweats, and I’ll show you my sea glass collection!”

“Cool!” Ellen struggled off the sofa, clutching the afghan to her chest. “Can we take Mehitabel with us?”

“Sure.” Flannery scooped up the cat. The placid creature hung over her arm like a limp Salvador Dali watch as the little girls scampered down the hallway, leaving the two grown-ups alone.

“Uh—can I make you some hot tea?” Kate spoke almost too swiftly as she scrambled to fill the awkward silence.

“No, that’s all right.” Jeff’s gaze explored the room, taking in the lush, green jumble of houseplants, the seashells and driftwood, the varicolored cushions and worn, mismatched furniture, all of which blended, somehow, into an ambiance of cozy warmth. Outside, cold, gray rain lashed the roof and battered the windowpanes. Inside, the whole room seemed to glow.

“Well, we can sit down, at least,” she said, settling onto a low ottoman. The neck of her robe had fallen open to reveal the luminous curve of her throat. Her skin was delicately freckled, like tiny dots of cinnamon sprinkled on rich cream. Jeff battled the ridiculous urge to bend over and taste her.

“I—my clothes are pretty wet,” he muttered.

“Oh, sit down. You can’t do anything to that couch that hasn’t been done a hundred times before.”

Jeff moved the cushions aside and lowered himself onto the threadbare upholstery. “Sorry about that I drove over here, but before that, I was running along the beach like a wild man. I was afraid Ellen had tried to go back out to the rocks.”

“You must have been frantic.” Her aquamarine eyes were cautious.

“Out of my mind is more like it. Ellen’s never done anything like this before. If she hadn’t been here—”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.