The Nantucket parties Arden remembered from when she was fourteen, and for a while when she was fifteen, when her hormones were on red alert, had been beach parties. In shorts and a bikini top, she’d danced barefoot in the sand with girlfriends giggling idiotically and stealing sips from abandoned beer bottles. Princess Diana had still been alive, and Arden had been young.
The party Jenny took her to tonight was different. Well, of course, it would be; they were all grown-up now, even if the salty ocean breeze made her feel fresh, sassy, and eager for all that summer could bring. It was held at a house on the cliff. Bars were set up both inside the house and out on the lawn overlooking Nantucket Sound. Waiters passed trays of canapés and a bluegrass band played.
Jenny wore a simple red dress that set off her striking dark hair and eyes. She wore a sleek pair of red sandals, too, with stones glittering across the straps as she easily crossed the lawn, not making divots in the grass. In the car on the way over, Jenny told Arden she’d broken up recently with a hunk named Bjorn. Jenny was ready for a new romance. When they arrived at the party, Jenny spotted someone and, with a careless “I’ll be right back” to Arden, hurried away through the crowd, leaving Arden alone.
Arden had only her basic everyday beige sandals—she had brought all her four-inch heels for parties, but had decided not to wear them tonight because Jenny told her they’d be mostly outside. She wore a simple sea-green shift that accentuated the green of her eyes. Not many people had true green eyes; Arden did. She knew she looked good, and she was comfortable in large groups, not afraid to be alone. Anyway, it was the house itself she was interested in.
She took a glass of wine off a tray and wandered through the open French doors to the living room. It was a true old summer house with wide-board floors slanting unevenly and faded curtains and sofas that had apparently been there forever. Framed photographs cluttered the bookshelves, crammed in with golf and tennis trophies and dozens of ordinary shells, no doubt treasures discovered by grandchildren. She peeked into the kitchen, where the caterers were working hard and fast, and grinned. Ah, what a find. An original kitchen, no doubt a horror to work in, the only new appliances a microwave set on an antique walnut table and a roll-away dishwasher with an adapter at the end of its electric plug. Fire hazard waiting.
“I know who you are, and I bet I know just what you’re thinking.” The voice was low, sensual, deeply masculine.
Arden turned. Early thirties, tall and elegant in an expensive pink Brooks Brothers shirt and a Rolex watch.
Arden asked, “We’ve met?”
“No, we haven’t met, but I’ve seen you plenty of times on your TV show. Simplify This.” Humor brightened his brown eyes, as if he knew exactly what her reaction was and found it amusing.
“Ah. So that explains why you know what I’m thinking.”
He leaned forward, ostensibly to survey the kitchen, touching her shoulder with his. “You want to get in there and modernize that kitchen. Am I right?”
A waiter swung toward them with a giant tray. Arden moved back into the dining room.
“You’re right,” she admitted reluctantly. He was arrogant, another self-satisfied conquistador. Yet she found him oddly compelling.
He held out his hand. “Palmer White.”
His name was familiar. She put her hand in his. “Arden Randall.”
He took his time about releasing her hand. “How do you know the Beaudreaus?”
“I don’t. My, um, sister Jenny does. She brought me along.” They slowly strolled through the house toward wide doors opening to the lawn. “How do you know them?”
“Oh, Ivan’s been a partner of mine in crime for a long time.” A glint of complacence edged his voice.
“What do you do?”
“I’m in television. I own air space and so on.”
Arden’s interest flared. “Do you own Channel Six?”
“I do now. Among others.” He slid his hand through her arm and bent close to her, whispering in her ear. “I’ll give you a hint. Don’t waste your time on the Beaudreaus. Genevieve Marie is emotionally attached to every dust bunny and paper clip in this house. Plus, they wouldn’t dream of having their home exposed to the public on a show like yours.”
Arden bridled at his insult and yanked her arm away. “A show like mine?”
“Aimed at the upper-middle section of the demographic span—and understandably so, that’s your audience. But people like to dream. More than that, they like to see how the rich live. We all do. It’s human nature. Your ratings are beginning to fall—”
Insulted and frankly shocked that this stranger was so brash about what was intimate professional information, Arden took a step back. “Don’t bother worrying about my television show. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Palmer White inquired.
All Arden’s professional life, she’d been plagued with men who thought because she was good-looking and relatively young, they could tell her what to do. They were wrong. “Excuse me,” she said, and blindly strode away.
She wove through the crowd, jaw clenched. She didn’t see Jenny anywhere in the crowd. She thought she might just walk home. She didn’t know anyone here, she was tired from packing and making the trip to the island, and Palmer White had started her summer off with a blast of bad juju.
Somehow she managed to get stuck in the crowd. She turned sideways, trying to squeeze her way through.
Someone stepped, crushingly, on her foot.
“Ouch! Holy damn!” Instinctively, she hopped on her good foot, holding the injured one off the ground. Not the most elegant pose.
“Oh, excuse me,” a man said. “I stepped on your foot. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
She looked up. And up. The man had to be six four, his blue blazer marvelously delineating a slim, muscular torso while accentuating his blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a red tie with sailboats on it. She liked men in ties.
“I’m fine,” she replied politely. “If I could just get over to a bench …”
“Let me help.”
She allowed herself to be ushered gently, his hand on her elbow, through the crowd to a wrought iron bench by the lily pond. She sank onto the seat. To her amazement, the man knelt down, taking her foot in his hand.
“I think it’s swelling,” he said. “You may even get a nasty bruise.”
His blond hair was thick. His hands were long and elegant. His Nantucket red trousers were faded from age in a way that would impress even Ralph Lauren.
He eased her sandal off and gently touched her toes.
In spite of herself, Arden flinched. “Ouch.”
“Yep,” the man said. “I did a thorough job.” He looked up at her ruefully. “I am awfully sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she babbled. “Happens all the time in mobs like this. Really, it’s fine.”
“I’ll get some ice.” Before she could object, he disappeared.
Arden inspected her foot. It was swelling. What a way to start the summer! Laughter and snippets of conversation drifted her way through the warm evening to where she sat, alone and in pain. She knocked back the rest of her wine—for medicinal purposes.
“Here we go.” Suddenly he’d returned, with ice wrapped in one of the caterer’s white napkins. “Can you hold it against your foot? That should keep the swelling down.”
She felt like an idiot, sitting in such an unalluring position, with one leg up, knee to her chin, as she held the ice on her foot, trying to keep her dress tucked tidily beneath her thigh.
He sat next to her. “I’m Tim Robinson, and my clumsy feet are the bane of my existence.”
She laughed. “Arden Randall.”
Companionably, they eyed his feet, neatly shod in tasseled leather loafers.
“You do have big feet,” she remarked gently.
“Size twelve. You’d think by now I’d be used to them. I’ve had them all my life.”
Arden laughed. It seemed natural to ask, “What do you do?”
“Computers,” he told her. “I’m ‘the computer guy.’ That’s the name of my store here on the island: The Computer Guy. I sell computers, printers, accessories, and I repair computers. I make house calls to help people when their computers are being obstinate.”
“You must be the most popular guy on the island.”
“I’m not sure popular is precisely the right word,” Tim joked. “By the time people call me, they’ve worked themselves up into a state of four-letter fury that makes them completely inarticulate. It usually takes me more time to understand what the problem is than to fix it.”
Arden laughed. “Oh, I know. Nothing makes me as angry as my computer.” For some reason, she thought of Palmer White. “Well, almost nothing.”
“When computers do work, things happen so quickly that it makes everyone short tempered when a problem isn’t fixed instantaneously.” He looked at her ice-covered toes. “How’s your foot?”
“I think it will be okay,” she told him. “Nothing broken.”
“That’s good. I hope you don’t have to lead a hiking tour tomorrow.”
“I’m on vacation,” she assured him. “I’ll lie in the sun and recuperate from my terrible injury.”
“Where do you live when you’re not here?”
“Boston. But I’ll be on the island for the entire summer.”
“Three months vacationing on the island? Nice.”
She shifted to face him. He was a handsome man to face. “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” she said. “I’m actually drawing a salary while I’m vacationing, plus I’ll be doing some research for the television show I host in Boston.”
“You host a TV show? Impressive. What is it?” Before she could reply, he hurriedly explained, “I don’t watch television much anymore. I get my news on the computer and play DVDs when I have the time.”
“No problem, though I believe I have a universal message. My show’s called Simplify This.”
He burst out into a full-bodied laugh. “Man, if only!”
Their conversation was interrupted by a tapping at the microphone.
“Hello, y’all. I’m Genevieve Beaudreau, and I’m the hostess of this li’l ol’ get-together.”
Genevieve had back-combed white hair, a silver sequined dress draped over a tall, voluptuous yet shapely body, and everything about her glittered. Even though she was at least in her fifties and of more than generous proportions, she still wore bling covered with bling. She was like a 1930s movie star, lacking only the white fox stole.
“I’m just so happy to see all of you, and I want to thank you for coming to help support this new organization, the Arts Coalition of Nantucket. Now I know I’m just a li’l old summer person from Texas, but I’ve been comin’ to this adorable island for years and years, and if there’s one thing I know in my life, it’s that this island breeds super artists like a raccoon breeds fleas. Now that we’ve entered the new age of technology, I believe we owe it to the world to let everyone know all about the artistic excellence of Nantucket, and that’s why I founded the arts coalition, and that’s why I’m asking you charming people for your help.”
Arden looked around the crowd to gauge their reaction. Some of the women were exchanging looks of skepticism and amusement, but every man there had his eyes glued to their hostess’s sparkling form. As she continued to talk, the audience warmed up, smiling, then chuckling, then outright laughing at Genevieve’s southern charm. Arden decided the savvy Texan hostess knew exactly what she was doing. She knew how to get attention, and how to keep it.
After a few more minutes, Genevieve stepped off the platform and the band started up again. A gentleman in a tux handed Genevieve a glass of wine, and a flock of other men surrounded her.
“I believe she’s going to make a success of her cause,” Arden remarked.
Tim agreed. “Who could turn her down? She reminds me of Jean Harlow.”
“I should have known you two would find each other.”
Arden looked up from her bench to see Jenny standing above her, hand on cocked hip, eyes narrowed dangerously.
Jenny said, “I should have known that out of all this crowd, you’d find my sister.”
Tim almost leapt from the bench. He stood just inches in front of Jenny, glaring down at her. “You told me you don’t have any sisters!”
“Well,” Jenny sputtered, “I only sort of do—”
Tim pounced. “You lied!”
Arden watched, fascinated. Tim and Jenny faced each other with such passionate intensity, Arden couldn’t decide whether they were going to murder each other or throw themselves into a torrid embrace.
“I did not lie!” Jenny insisted. “Arden isn’t my sister—”
“You just said she was!” Tim reminded Jenny triumphantly. “You are a proven liar.”
Jenny went purple. “Arden is my stepsister. I haven’t even seen her in years.”
Tim tore his gaze away from Jenny’s face and aimed it at Arden. “Is this true?”
Arden knew she had the opportunity to get Jenny in trouble. It was just too delicious to resist. Sweetly, she replied, “It’s true that we’re stepsisters. But we have seen each other every year. Our father would take the three of us out on the town for a special dinner, so we’d all be together.”
“Oh, turkey breast,” snapped Jenny, in her turmoil reverting to her childhood swear. “One night doesn’t count.”
“Yes it does,” Arden insisted, surprised to find herself becoming emotionally involved. “What Jenny probably means is that we never met on Nantucket because she got me and my real sister exiled.”
“That was not my fault!” Jenny hissed.
Before Arden could respond, she noticed their hostess, Genevieve, coming toward them, all smiles and glitter.
“Darlin’s!” Genevieve swooped down to gather Jenny and Tim against her like baby chicks. “I’m so glad to find you here together like this. I just knew it was the right idea, and look here, I’m right again.”
Jenny and Tim both smiled nervously.
“Now, we need to have a meetin’ soon because I want the two of you to design, build, and run the arts coalition website,” Genevieve declared.
Arden bit back a smile as she watched Jenny and Tim exchange a meaningful glance.
“Of course you know I’ll pay you, and top rate, too,” Genevieve cooed. “You’re only young’uns, and I wouldn’t expect kids like you just starting out to donate your time, so don’t even think about it. Bill me like you’re both lawyers.” She chuckled at her own wit. “Okay, Monday morning, my office, eleven?” She bent to peck a kiss on Jenny’s forehead and stood on tiptoe to kiss Tim’s chin, then whirled away, leaving a mist of perfume as sweet as a Taylor Swift song.
Jenny’s smile disappeared. Her face grew stormy. “I’m going to kill myself,” she muttered.
“Grow up,” Tim told her. “We can do this.”
“I’m sys admin,” Jenny snapped.
“That is so wrong. You should be site designer and the graphic artist—that’s the stuff you do well,” Tim retorted.
Arden’s head turned back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match. Okay, Arden thought, Tim gave Jenny a compliment. Now Jenny will be nice back.
Jenny only bristled. “I do everything well.”
Tim stepped closer to Jenny, hands on his hips, mouth tense, glaring down at her with the ferocity of some futuristic death-ray machine. Arden thought he might zap her with a toxic glow and Jenny would disappear. Serve her right, Arden thought with a wicked inner smile.
Instead, Tim spoke with obvious patience. “Let’s just make the meeting and go from there, okay? This could be important to both of us.”
Mouth tightened into a thin line, Jenny nodded. Then she spun on her heel and stalked away.
Tim took a long, deep breath. After a moment, he realized Arden was standing there. “So she’s your sister?”
Arden made a helpless shoulder shrug. “As she said, she’s a stepsister. We’re not exactly close. Our relationship is neutral at the best of times. It’s complicated.”
Tim smiled at her. “I’d like to hear about it.”
Wow, did this guy have a dangerous smile. Arden narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why? So you can learn more about Jenny?”
“Believe me, I know all I need to about her,” he answered. “No, so I can learn more about you. I don’t believe I’ve started off on my best foot, so to speak. Let me take you out to dinner. Or better yet, out on my boat.”
“It would be heavenly to get out on the water,” Arden said.
“Next Saturday?”
She thought for a moment. She wasn’t used to having free time, but for three months, she had all the time in the world. “Next Saturday,” she agreed.