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Authors: Kathleen O`Brien
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areâ¦old friends.â
She heard the hesitation as he tried to decide what to call itâ¦. Old friends? Oh, brother. Was there anymore transparent euphemism than that one?
So the Stepwitch hadnât always been made of ice? That was an interesting little nugget of information, which she stuffed into a mental pocket, recognizing that it could have its uses someday.
In fact, it might be useful right now. Sheâd been waiting for a sign to help her decide which of these great-looking guys to choose as her next conquest, and perhaps this was it. She rubbed her thumbs slowly over the ribbed handlebar and moistened her lips in eager anticipation. An âold friendâ of Lacyâs. How lucky could a girl get?
âWell, in that case, Mr. Kendall,â she said blandly, reaching around to pat the leather seat behind her. âHop on.â
CHAPTER FOUR
L ACYâS DINNER GUESTS left at ten-thirty, and, though she was exhausted, she forced herself to wash the brandy glasses. She never, ever went to bed with even one dirty spoon in the sinkâMalcolm wouldnât have stood for it, and after all these years it had become a rather comforting habit. A habit she wasnât going to break now, no matter how she longed for sleep. Adam Kendall, damn him, wasnât going to destroy her routine as well as her peace of mind.
She still had two glasses to go when she realized that Hamlet, who usually slept on the breakfast nook windowsill, waiting for her to go to bed, was missing. Her chest tightened as she saw the mudroom door open a crack. Evelyn, her day cleaner who had stayed late to help with the party, must have left it unlatched again.
Drying her hands on the white cotton apron sheâd pulled over her evening dress, Lacy hurried out to the west portico. She didnât need this right now. Seeing Adam at the hospitalâand then that tacky confrontation with Jennifer Lansingâhad left her so drained that sheâd hardly been able to carry on a decent conversation at dinner. Foolishly, sheâd drunk three glasses of champagne, hoping for a slight lift, but ithad only made her disagreeably tipsy, with a headache threatening.
And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose. There ought to be a law. Surviving a showdown with an old boyfriend should give you a free pass for the rest of the day.
Luckily, Hamlet was predictable. Whenever he got loose, he always dashed gleefully up the big English oak in the side yard, and then, as if the whole escapade hadnât been his own idea, cried plaintively to be rescued.
She leaned over the edge of the porticoâs balustrade and peered up into the murky branches of the hundred-year-old tree. Whoops⦠Squeezing her eyes shut against the tilting dizziness, she gripped the railing carefully. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She really should have stopped with just one glass of champagneâ¦.
Even when she felt stable enough to open her eyes again, she couldnât see a thing up in the tree. Rain was due before morning, and clouds as thick as black velvet smothered any moonlight.
âHamlet?â She pursed her lips and aimed small kissing sounds toward the tree. The wind sent the leaves rustling like silk, but no frightened kitten emerged.
Why wasnât he crying? Protecting her equilibrium by moving very slowly, Lacy leaned farther over the railing, ignoring splinters that might snag her expensive embroidered bodice. The complete silence unnerved her. She told herself she was overreactingâif she hadnât had too much wine, she wouldnât be feeling this rising panic. Her breath was coming a little too fast, and she clutched the wood with anxious fingers.
Darn it, this was why she had always refused to own a pet. For ten years now she had resisted tumble-footed puppies, sleepy-eyed cats and operatic canariesâall offered by well-meaning friends who couldnât accept her preference for solitude.
She heard the hesitation as he tried to decide what to call itâ¦. Old friends? Oh, brother. Was there anymore transparent euphemism than that one?
So the Stepwitch hadnât always been made of ice? That was an interesting little nugget of information, which she stuffed into a mental pocket, recognizing that it could have its uses someday.
In fact, it might be useful right now. Sheâd been waiting for a sign to help her decide which of these great-looking guys to choose as her next conquest, and perhaps this was it. She rubbed her thumbs slowly over the ribbed handlebar and moistened her lips in eager anticipation. An âold friendâ of Lacyâs. How lucky could a girl get?
âWell, in that case, Mr. Kendall,â she said blandly, reaching around to pat the leather seat behind her. âHop on.â
CHAPTER FOUR
L ACYâS DINNER GUESTS left at ten-thirty, and, though she was exhausted, she forced herself to wash the brandy glasses. She never, ever went to bed with even one dirty spoon in the sinkâMalcolm wouldnât have stood for it, and after all these years it had become a rather comforting habit. A habit she wasnât going to break now, no matter how she longed for sleep. Adam Kendall, damn him, wasnât going to destroy her routine as well as her peace of mind.
She still had two glasses to go when she realized that Hamlet, who usually slept on the breakfast nook windowsill, waiting for her to go to bed, was missing. Her chest tightened as she saw the mudroom door open a crack. Evelyn, her day cleaner who had stayed late to help with the party, must have left it unlatched again.
Drying her hands on the white cotton apron sheâd pulled over her evening dress, Lacy hurried out to the west portico. She didnât need this right now. Seeing Adam at the hospitalâand then that tacky confrontation with Jennifer Lansingâhad left her so drained that sheâd hardly been able to carry on a decent conversation at dinner. Foolishly, sheâd drunk three glasses of champagne, hoping for a slight lift, but ithad only made her disagreeably tipsy, with a headache threatening.
And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose. There ought to be a law. Surviving a showdown with an old boyfriend should give you a free pass for the rest of the day.
Luckily, Hamlet was predictable. Whenever he got loose, he always dashed gleefully up the big English oak in the side yard, and then, as if the whole escapade hadnât been his own idea, cried plaintively to be rescued.
She leaned over the edge of the porticoâs balustrade and peered up into the murky branches of the hundred-year-old tree. Whoops⦠Squeezing her eyes shut against the tilting dizziness, she gripped the railing carefully. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She really should have stopped with just one glass of champagneâ¦.
Even when she felt stable enough to open her eyes again, she couldnât see a thing up in the tree. Rain was due before morning, and clouds as thick as black velvet smothered any moonlight.
âHamlet?â She pursed her lips and aimed small kissing sounds toward the tree. The wind sent the leaves rustling like silk, but no frightened kitten emerged.
Why wasnât he crying? Protecting her equilibrium by moving very slowly, Lacy leaned farther over the railing, ignoring splinters that might snag her expensive embroidered bodice. The complete silence unnerved her. She told herself she was overreactingâif she hadnât had too much wine, she wouldnât be feeling this rising panic. Her breath was coming a little too fast, and she clutched the wood with anxious fingers.
Darn it, this was why she had always refused to own a pet. For ten years now she had resisted tumble-footed puppies, sleepy-eyed cats and operatic canariesâall offered by well-meaning friends who couldnât accept her preference for solitude.
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