The chill in the air didn’t prevent Finley from his morning ritual. Every day, regardless of the weather, he swam fifty laps in his hourglass-shaped pool while Vivaldi poured out of the speakers hidden in the jasmine plants. It was, to him, a matter of discipline. Of course, the water was heated to a pleasant eighty-three degrees—exactly.
As he cut through the warm water with strong, sure strokes, thin fingers of steam curled up into the cool winter air. He counted the laps himself, gaining arrogance and satisfaction with each turn.
The pool was his, and his alone. Finley allowed no servant, no companion, no guest, to sully his waters.
Once, when he had been entertaining, a tipsy acquaintance had tumbled in. The following day Finley had had the pool drained, scrubbed out and refilled. Needless to say, his hapless guest had never been invited back.
Now, he rose in the water, enjoying the sensation of having the water slice off his skin. Gooseflesh popped out over his body as he strode up the wide, curving steps, onto the terra-cotta skirt and into the snowy-white robe his butler held for him.
“Time?” he said, rubbing down briskly.
“Twelve minutes, eighteen seconds, sir.”
The butler always stopped the clock at precisely that time. Once, he made the mistake of timing Finley at a bit over thirteen minutes. An ugly scene had followed, during which the man had nearly lost his well-paying job. Finley never went over twelve-eighteen again.
“Excellent.” Smugly satisfied, Finley accepted his vitamin drink, a concoction created especially for him by his personal trainer. Even served in a Waterford tumbler, the thick, nasty-looking mixture of herbs, vegetables and Chinese roots tasted foul. Finley drank it quickly, as though it were the fresh, clear water of the Fountain of Youth. He’d convinced himself it was exactly that.
Finley dismissed the butler by handing him back both the damp towel and the empty glass.
Now that the first part of his morning ritual was behind him, Finley allowed himself to consider the problem of Isadora Conroy. It was not an altogether unpleasant problem, he mused. One couldn’t become overly disgruntled at the prospect of dealing with a young, beautiful woman. He strode in through the French doors of the parlor as he reflected on the possibilities.
Secure in his power, Finley showered and groomed and dressed. He enjoyed a pleasant breakfast of fresh fruit, whole-wheat toast and herbal tea on the patio a few feet from where he had gut-shot DiCarlo. All the while he considered Isadora. When the solution came to him, he smiled, even chuckled softly, and blotted his lips.
It would work, he decided. And if it didn’t—well then, he would simply kill her.
* * *
Dora was trying not to be annoyed. It was too predictable a reaction, she told herself, much too typical. Any woman would be annoyed if she awakened alone in bed without a clue as to where her lover had gone, or when he might be returning.
She wasn’t any woman, Dora reminded herself. And she wasn’t going to be annoyed—she wasn’t even going to be mildly miffed. They were each free to come and go as they pleased. She wouldn’t even ask him where the hell he’d been.
But when she heard the knock on the door, she tugged down the hem of her oversized sweatshirt, lifted her chin and marched into the living room.
“Okay, Skimmerhorn, you pig,” she muttered. “This better be good.”
She yanked open the door, searing words ready to leap off her tongue. She had to swallow them back when she stood face-to-face with Honoria Skimmerhorn Rodgers.
“Oh.” Dora pushed at the hair she’d bundled untidily on top of her head. “Mrs. Rodgers. Hello.”
“Good morning, Dora.” Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Honoria reveal her amusement in watching the changes in Dora’s expressive face. The fury, the shock, the embarrassment. “Have I caught you at an awkward time?”
“No. No. I was just . . .” Dora swallowed a nervous giggle and smiled. “If you’re looking for Jed, he doesn’t seem to be around.”
“Actually, I was hoping for a word with you. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Dora stepped back, miserably regretting that she hadn’t opened the shop that day and therefore hadn’t dressed for work. She felt like a used dust rag in her Steelers sweatshirt and bare feet while Honoria swept in smelling of Paris and wrapped in a luxurious fur jacket.
“How charming!” The sincerity in Honoria’s voice did a great deal to put Dora back on keel. “How utterly charming.” Her appreciative gaze roamed the room while she tugged off her gloves. “I must confess, I often wondered about these apartments over shops on South Street. It’s quite large, isn’t it?”
“I need a lot of room. May I take your coat?”
“Yes, thank you.”
As Dora hung up the mink, Honoria continued to wander the room. “I peeked in your shop window downstairs. I was disappointed to find it closed. But this”—she ran a fingertip along the sinuous, female lines of a Deco lamp—“is every bit as delightful.”
“One of the best things about selling is that I can live with my stock as long as I like. Would you like some coffee, tea?”
“I’d love some coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. Please, sit down, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you. I believe I’ll do just that.”
Honoria didn’t consider herself nosy—simply interested. She was interested enough to study and approve Dora’s view of bustling and artsy South Street from the tall living room windows. She also enjoyed and approved the decor of the apartment—warm and cozy, she decided, while remaining eclectic and a tad theatrical. Yes, she liked the room very much—a perfect mirror of Dora’s personality.
The girl would do, she thought, and lifted up a tortoiseshell tea caddy to admire it. The girl would do very, very well.
“Here we are.” Dora carried out a tray laden with a Fiesta ware pot and cups. She wished she could find some tactful way to dash into the bathroom and put on her lipstick. “Shall we take it in here?”
“That would be fine. Let me make room on the table for you. What a marvelous aroma. Scones?” Her eyes brightened. “How delightful.”
“I always keep some around.” Honoria’s simple pleasure had Dora relaxing again. “There’s something so civilized about scones.”
With a laugh, Honoria settled herself. “You’re very polite not to ask me what I’m doing knocking on your door at nine in the morning.” Honoria sipped her coffee, paused, sipped again. “This is quite exceptional.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Dora waited as Honoria added a dab of blackberry jelly to a scone. “Actually, it’s harder for me not to ask you about the painting.”
“Good.” Honoria let the scone lay on her tongue, sighing a little as she swallowed. “My dear, my mother would have been delighted with you. I haven’t tasted better since she died.”
“I’d be happy to give you the recipe for your cook.”
“I’d appreciate it. Now.” She sat back, balancing her cup and saucer with the uncanny skill only women of a certain class seem to acquire. “I believe you and I can trade information.”
“Oh? I don’t think I understand.”
“My grandson asks me to keep a certain painting in my home, and to allow an old friend to work on this painting. I’m to do this in the strictest confidence, and with police protection.” She smiled, inclined her head. “There is no explanation accompanying the request, of course.”
“Of course.” Returning the smile, Dora leaned forward. “Tell me, Mrs. Rodgers, why do we go along with him?”
“Call me Ria—my husband always did. We go along with him, dear child, because we care too much not to.” A delicate pause. “Am I right?”
“Yes. Yes, you are. That doesn’t make him right.” Dora’s earlier irritation returned in full force. “I’ll tell you everything I know, Ria, then you can tell me the results.”
“Precisely what I had in mind.”
Dora started at the beginning. Jed would have several logical reasons, she assumed, why his grandmother should be spared the knowledge and the concern that accompanied it. Yet she rationalized that he had already involved Honoria, completely voluntarily. She was only providing the background as a matter of courtesy.
Honoria listened without interruption. She sipped her coffee, her reaction showing only in the darkening of her eyes, a thinning of her mouth, the occasional lift of a well-shaped eyebrow. There was temper, but there was also breeding.
And here, Dora thought, was where Jed had inherited his control.
“This has been terrible for you,” Honoria said at length.
“Mrs. Lyle’s the worst. No matter what Jed says, I feel responsible.”
“Of course you do.” This was said staunchly, and made Dora feel more comforted than a dozen polite denials. “You wouldn’t be the woman you are if you didn’t. This DiCarlo . . .” The name came through Honoria’s lips ripe with cultured distaste. “Do the authorities have any idea where he might be hiding?”
“I don’t think so.” In a frustrated gesture, Dora lifted her hands, let them fall. “If they do, they haven’t found it necessary to mention it to me.”
“So like men. Do you know, I believe it goes back to when they had to crawl out of the cave and hunt for meat with rocks and clubs. The hunter.” She smiled when she said it, with a kind of cool indulgence Dora admired. “Women, of course, were left in the cave to give birth in the dirt and the dark, to cook the meat on a dung fire and tan the hides. But men still thought they knew best.”
“Jed hasn’t even told me what’s going to be done with the painting.”
“There, you see?” Her point proven, Honoria refilled her coffee cup, then Dora’s. “I wish I could tell you what his plans are, but he hasn’t deemed it necessary to share them with me either. I can, however, tell you about the painting itself. It’s brilliant.”
Her face shone with emotion. “Though there are tests to be run, there’s no doubt as to its authenticity. Not to me. It’s one of his water lily studies, no doubt painted at Giverny.” Her eyes went misty with dreams. Her voice softened like a woman speaking of a lover. “Ah, the light—ethereal and lyrical. That soft, seductive power that pulls you into the painting, makes you believe you can smell the damp flowers and still water.” Her eyes cleared again. “He painted more than seventeen in that series.”
“I know. Coincidentally, he’s my favorite impressionist painter. I never thought I’d own one, even indirectly.”
“I have one—a gift from my husband on our tenth anniversary. One of Monet’s garden studies. Side by side, those paintings are breathtaking. Before the police took it away, I stood in my bedroom, looking at them, and weeping. I wish I could believe this DiCarlo had stolen it because of its beauty and not for its monetary value. That would make it almost understandable.”
“You’d think they’d have let me see it,” Dora complained. “I did buy it. But no, I wake up this morning and the bed’s empty. Jed’s gone off somewhere—and does he let me know where, or what he’s up to? No. Not even a note under a refrigerator magnet. It seems to me—” She broke off, appalled. This was Jed’s grandmother. His grandmother. “I beg your pardon,” she managed.
“Not at all.” To prove it, Honoria tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh no, not at all. I’m delighted. I do hope, my dear, that you’ll give him hell when he returns. He’s always needed it from someone who loved him. God knows he took enough of it from those who didn’t. It’s not at all the same thing, you know.”
“No, I suppose not.” Most of her embarrassment faded, but the flush remained. “Mrs. Rodgers—Ria, I wouldn’t want you to think that I usually . . . develop intimate relationships with my tenants.”
“You still expect me to be shocked.” Thoroughly enjoying Dora’s reaction, Honoria smiled and helped herself to a second scone. “I’ll tell you why I married Jed’s grandfather, shall I? He was an incredibly handsome man—very strong and blond and physically exciting. In other words, I was hot for him.”
She nibbled delicately at the scone, her eyes alive with amusement. “Fortunately, Jed has inherited many of his grandfather’s physical traits and none of his emotional ones. Walter Skimmerhorn was a cold, often cruel and incessantly boring man. All of which are unforgivable flaws in a husband. It took me less than a year of marriage to realize my mistake. To my regret, it required a considerably longer amount of time to correct it.”
And the bitter dregs of that resentment still festered.
“You, on the other hand,” Honoria continued, “have already discovered there is much, much more to my grandson than an excellent physique. If I were to give any advice to the young people of today in such matters, it would be that they live together—as you and Jed are essentially doing now—before marriage.”
“We’re not—” Dora’s heart gave a quick and, to her embarrassment, decisively female flutter. “I hope I haven’t given you the impression that we’re thinking of marriage.”
“Not at all,” Honoria said lightly. Giving in to sentiment, she imagined the beautiful great-grandchildren Jed and Dora would make for her. “Now, Jed tells me your parents are Liberty Theater. I’ve enjoyed many productions there. I hope I’ll be able to meet them.”
“Ah . . .” Before Dora could answer, they were interrupted by another knock on the door. “Excuse me a minute.”
More than a little frazzled by the mention of marriage, and the neat segue into her family, Dora opened the door. Jed stood on the other side of the threshold. He took one long look, running his gaze from her bare feet to the top of her tousled hair. She looked rumpled and sexy and deliciously flushed.
“Conroy.” He snatched her to him and before she could speak had engaged her mouth in a hot, steamy kiss. “You got anything on under there?”
“Skimmerhorn.” If she’d been flushed before, she was now painfully pink. “Your—”
“I’ll find out for myself.” He scooped her up and, covering her mouth again, stepped inside with her.
Desperately embarrassed, she shoved against his chest. “Skimmerhorn.” After tearing her mouth from his, she sucked in a deep breath. “I think you’d better put me down and say hello to your grandmother.”
“What?”
“Good morning, Jedidiah.” Honoria brushed her fingers over her linen napkin. “Dora and I were just having some coffee. Perhaps you’d like to join us.”
“Grandmother.” To his credit, he said it easily, even if he did set Dora on the floor rather abruptly. “Were you waiting to see me?”
“Not at all, I paid a friendly call.” She glanced over as Dora walked in with an extra cup and saucer. “Dora and I were exchanging views on Monet. It happens he’s a favorite with both of us.”
“It’s police business now.”
“Then where’s your shield, Skimmerhorn?” Dora asked sweetly, and poured him a cup of coffee.
“Shut up, Conroy.”
“His manners are my failing,” Honoria explained. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it,” Dora told her. “I don’t. Jedidiah,” she said, delighted when he bared his teeth at her, “your grandmother and I would like to know what’s being done with the Monet.”
It seemed easier to give them something than to fight them both. “We—Brent,” he corrected, “took the whole business to Commissioner Riker this morning. It’s being kept under wraps for the time being.”
“So,” Honoria mused. “He went over that detestable Goldman’s head. Wise. The man is a horse’s ass and has no business being in command.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Grandmother?” Jed asked, and earned the mild stare that had caused him to flush in his youth.
“You know, Dora,” Honoria continued, “I made the mistake of never completely approving of Jedidiah’s decision to become a police officer, until he resigned. I’m afraid I didn’t tell him I was proud of him soon enough.”
“It’s always soon enough,” Dora said.
“You have a very fluid sense of compassion.” Well pleased with her morning’s work, Honoria rose. “He’ll need that. Thank you so much for the coffee. I hope I’ll be welcome back.”
“Anytime.” Dora took Honoria’s hand and did what Jed had yet to do. She kissed the woman’s cheek. “I’ll get your coat.”
“I have an appointment shortly.” Honoria tugged on her gloves. “So I don’t have time to see your apartment.”
“There’s nothing to see,” Jed told her flatly. But he took the coat from Dora and helped his grandmother into it. “I appreciate your help in this.” He bent down and kissed her, despite the discomfort of having Dora looking on. “I’d appreciate it more if you’d forget it now.”
She only smiled. “I’d like you to bring Dora for dinner soon. Call me and we’ll arrange it. Thank you again, dear,” she said to Dora. “I’ll come back when the shop’s open. There was a piece in the window—the bronze huntress.”
“Yes, I know the one.”
“I’m very interested.” With a quick wink at Dora, she sailed out.
“What a terrific lady.”
“What did she want?”
“The basic courtesy of information.” Dora started to lift the tray, then set it down with a rattle when Jed took her shoulder.
“If I’d wanted her to have information,” he began with barely controlled fury, “I’d have given it to her.”
“You opened Ria up when you took the painting to her. I’m sorry, Jed, if you’re angry, but when she asked me directly, I answered.”
“Damn it.” Her calm sincerity was the pin that burst the balloon of his temper. “Do you know the tap dancing we’re doing to keep this quiet?”
“I have some idea.” She lifted a brow. “Do you think your granny’s going to take out a full-page ad?”
His mouth twitched at the idea of the elegant Honoria being called his granny. “The fewer people who have the details, the better.”
“Including me.” Now she did lift the tray and walked stiffly into the kitchen with it. “That’s why I woke up alone in bed this morning, without any explanation from you as to where you were going, what you were doing.”
“Hold it. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Her voice low and furious, she began to load the coffee things into the sink for rinsing. “Nothing at all. Go kill a bear with your bare hands, why don’t you?”
“Conroy.” Caught between amusement and exasperation, he leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re ticked because I went out this morning?”
“Why should I be?” She rounded on him with hurt anger in her eyes. “I’m used to waking up in bed alone.”
“Damn.” Baffled, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Look, I got up early. I didn’t want to wake you . . . .” He remembered exactly the way she’d looked, curled in the bed, her hair spread on the pillow. Yes, he’d wanted to wake her up, he thought. But it hadn’t been to tell her he was going out. “I went to the gym for an hour, caught breakfast with Brent. We had some things to go over.”
“Did I ask you for an explanation?” Her voice was cold, but her temper was not as she shoved by him.
“Yeah.” Cautious, he followed her back into the living room. “You did.”
“Oh, forget it!” Disgusted with herself, she pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
“I really need to satisfy my curiosity. What does a woman wear under baggy football sweats?” He scooped her up again, nuzzled her neck on the way to the bedroom.
“Nothing important. In fact . . .” She laughed as they tumbled like wrestling children onto the bed. “Nothing at all.”
“There’s a hole in the shoulder.”
“I know. I was mortified when your grandmother caught me in it.”
“And a stain.” He ran his finger between her breasts. “Right here.”
“A nice full-bodied burgundy. It splashed on me when I was making lasagna.” She sighed and slid her fingers into his hair. “I’ve been meaning to cut it up for rags, but—” She gasped, stunned when he ripped the shirt down the center.
“That ought to take care of it.” Before she could decide whether to laugh or swear at him, he took her breast into his mouth and sent a quick and urgent greed swimming in her blood. “I’ve wanted to rip your clothes off since the first time I saw you.”
“You—” Staggered, and aroused, she gulped in air as his hands stroked possessively down to her waist. “You shut the door in my face the first time you saw me.”
“It seemed a more rational reaction at the time.” He tore the sweatpants with one powerful twist of his hands. “I could have been wrong.”
He leaned back, his hands over hers on the spread. The sun was bright through the open curtain, spilling generously over her face, her skin, her hair. The ruined clothes lay in tatters beneath her. It made him feel, however fancifully, like a warrior about to reap the spoils of war.
Her body, aware, aroused, alluring, quivered as though it were his hands rather than his eyes that skimmed over it. Her breasts were small, firm, milk-white, the nipples temptingly erect.
Lowering his head, he circled each rose-colored peak with his tongue until her breath was short and shallow and her body taut as a bowstring. The pulse at her wrists pounded like gunshots under his fingers.
“I want to watch you.” His voice was thick as he took a hand from hers to slide between her thighs. From silk to velvet to damp satin.
The orgasm curled inside her like a snake, striking quickly, violently, so that her body reared up in shock when she cried out.
“It never seems to be enough,” he whispered. He was surprised he could breathe. Watching Dora in pleasure was unspeakably erotic, uncannily seductive. She greedily consumed it, and she generously released it. Her capacity for giving and for taking passion was unstintingly honest and impossible to resist.
So he watched as she absorbed the aftershocks of sensation as he pulled off his clothes.
He needed to see her, to see every flicker and flash of emotion on her face. Kneeling, he lifted her hips, slid her slowly toward him, slipped slowly into her.
The sound she made at the mating was feline and throaty. He never took his eyes from her face, even when his vision dimmed and his control shattered.
“I owe you a sweatshirt.” In a friendly gesture, Jed tugged his own over her head.
Dora examined it. “This is even rattier than the one you tore up.” And she wouldn’t have parted with it for diamonds. “Besides, you owe me sweatpants, too.”
“Mine wouldn’t fit you.” He pulled them on, then stood looking at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching down, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “We could start a fire, and spend the rest of the morning in bed watching game shows.”
She tilted her head. “That sounds incredibly tempting, Skimmerhorn. Why do you suppose I have this odd feeling that you’re trying to keep me out of the way?”
“Out of whose way?”
“Yours.”
“How can you be out of my way when I’m planning on spending as much time as possible on top of you?”
“You and Brent are working on something and you don’t want me to know what it is.” It was disappointing, and enormously frustrating, that he showed no reaction at all to her accusation. “That’s all right.” She shrugged it off and smoothed a hand over the rumpled spread. “I’ll find out anyway.”
“How?”
She smiled. “When I’m on top of you, I’ll vamp it out of you.”
“Vamp?” But he fought back a laugh as he worked a flattened cigarette out of his pack. “You can’t expect me to concentrate on Bob Barker or Vanna White after a statement like that.”
“Bob Barker?” She laughed, so thoroughly delighted with him she gave in to the need to leap up and into his arms. “Bob Barker? God, Skimmerhorn, I love you.”
She started to lean back and kiss him senseless when she felt him stiffen. Very slowly, very quietly, her heart sank to her knees.
“Whoops.” She fought for a light tone as she untangled herself from him. “Wasn’t supposed to let that one out, was I? Sorry.” Because the hurt was still swelling, she turned away, avoiding his eyes. “Chalk it up to the heat of the moment, or whatever works for you.”
He wasn’t sure he could get his tongue around a word, but finally managed her name. “Dora—”
“No, really.” Oh God, oh God, she thought, panicked. She was going to cry if she didn’t do something quickly. “It was just a slip of the tongue, nothing to get worried about.”
Forcing a smile, she turned back. It was as bad as she’d feared. His face was set, his eyes absolutely blank.
“Listen, Skimmerhorn, the ‘L’ word comes real easy to me. My family boots it around like a football—you know us theatrical types.”
She lifted her hand again, running it through her hair in that restless and lovely feminine gesture he’d grown so fond of.
“So look.” Her voice was bright again, excessively cheerful. “Why don’t you start that fire? I’ll make us something appropriate to snack on while watching game shows.”
She took a step forward, stopped. He hadn’t moved, but had blocked her retreat through simple will.
“You meant it, didn’t you?” He said it quietly, and the eyes that had fastened on her face made it impossible for her to hedge.
“Yes, I meant it.” The defense came automatically. He watched as her shoulders straightened, her chin firmed. “They’re my feelings, Jed, and I know how to deal with them. I’m not asking you to match them, or even to accept them if that’s difficult for you.” The first licks of temper glinted in her eyes. “And since it obviously bothers you so much to hear them, I’ll be careful not to mention them again. Ever. All right?”
No, it was far from all right. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when things had changed between them any more than he could pinpoint his own feelings. But he could do something to stabilize what was becoming a dangerous situation.
“Get dressed,” he told her. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”