without laying eyes on a single soul except for the frozen-eyed gazes of what must have been ancestors to this household whose portraits lined the walls. Not until she turned the knob and pulled open the massive front door did it occur to her that she was barely dressed, with no cape in sight, and she had no idea how far away she was from home.
But her concerns proved unfounded when she stepped outside onto an elegant, polished brick walk of what was clearly an expensive home. In the Back Bay. On Arlington Street. Across from the Public Gardens. Good Heavens! She was no further away from her own house than twenty yards!
Twenty yards away from home!
She staggered back a step before catching herself on a granite pilaster when she realized she had just been in the house of the man whose music she had heard through the wall, and whose myriad guests had danced long into the night.
Good Lord, she had just slept naked, for reasons unknown, in the bed of the dark, dangerous pirate-man who lived next door.
CHAPTER 6
"You really should take it easy on that arm, Stephen."
Stephen glanced out the window of a room that stood just off the foyer, overlooking Arlington Street and the Public Gardens. For most people, this space would have been used as a receiving room. Stephen had turned it into his study, with thick red draperies, plush Oriental rugs, dark woods, and row after row of leather-bound books.
His doctor stood beside the heavy, finely wrought mahogany desk, the man's wire spectacles perched on his nose. "Really, Stephen. You have to be careful."
Stephen didn't bother to tell the doctor that he had been extremely careful—until last night. "I heard you the first time, Harold."
"Well, it's just that if you're not cautious, the shoulder will never heal."
"I didn't ask about healing, I asked about movement. Will I or won't I ever be able to move my arm again?"
The doctor appeared to grow uncomfortable and became absorbed in arranging his medical instruments in his black leather satchel.
"Harold?"
The doctor's heavily lined face creased further in consideration. Harold Mayfield had been Stephen and Adam's doctor for as long as Stephen could remember, and their father's before that. It had been Harold who
Blue Waltz59
had come to the house twenty years before and told the boys of their parents' death.
The memory was shrouded in a haze of cold and pain. An icy winter night. Slick, frozen roads over an old, narrow bridge. Swerved to miss an oncoming carriage. Crashed through the wooden railing. Died instantly.
What Stephen remembered most clearly of all was being seventeen years old and trying to comprehend the fact that his parents were never coming home.
Adam had only been twelve at the time and had never been the same again.
Stephen had taken over. He had tried to fill his father's shoes. But at seventeen or twenty-seven, and even now at thirty-seven, more often than not he knew he fell short—at least where Adam was concerned.
John St. James, Jack as everyone had called him, had been a big man, a happy man, a man who knew everyone's name and used them frequently. He had loved life, and it had loved him—at least until that night so many years ago when his luck ran dry, pinching out the flame that had burned so brightly and intensely that, when it was gone, many were left alone in the dark. Even now, twenty years later, Stephen missed the man as much as he had that first day, perhaps even more.
Harold finally snapped his bag shut and sighed. "Well, if I'm to be straight with you, Stephen, I don't hold much hope for your shoulder to be of much good to you any longer. At least not in the way you're used to. You'll get accustomed to it, though. I've seen it before. The body adjusts. Amazing thing, the body. Just like a three-legged dog gets along just fine without that missing leg."
Stephen looked on, his face tight in stony silence.
Harold seemed to realize that comparing Stephen's condition with a three-legged
But her concerns proved unfounded when she stepped outside onto an elegant, polished brick walk of what was clearly an expensive home. In the Back Bay. On Arlington Street. Across from the Public Gardens. Good Heavens! She was no further away from her own house than twenty yards!
Twenty yards away from home!
She staggered back a step before catching herself on a granite pilaster when she realized she had just been in the house of the man whose music she had heard through the wall, and whose myriad guests had danced long into the night.
Good Lord, she had just slept naked, for reasons unknown, in the bed of the dark, dangerous pirate-man who lived next door.
CHAPTER 6
"You really should take it easy on that arm, Stephen."
Stephen glanced out the window of a room that stood just off the foyer, overlooking Arlington Street and the Public Gardens. For most people, this space would have been used as a receiving room. Stephen had turned it into his study, with thick red draperies, plush Oriental rugs, dark woods, and row after row of leather-bound books.
His doctor stood beside the heavy, finely wrought mahogany desk, the man's wire spectacles perched on his nose. "Really, Stephen. You have to be careful."
Stephen didn't bother to tell the doctor that he had been extremely careful—until last night. "I heard you the first time, Harold."
"Well, it's just that if you're not cautious, the shoulder will never heal."
"I didn't ask about healing, I asked about movement. Will I or won't I ever be able to move my arm again?"
The doctor appeared to grow uncomfortable and became absorbed in arranging his medical instruments in his black leather satchel.
"Harold?"
The doctor's heavily lined face creased further in consideration. Harold Mayfield had been Stephen and Adam's doctor for as long as Stephen could remember, and their father's before that. It had been Harold who
Blue Waltz59
had come to the house twenty years before and told the boys of their parents' death.
The memory was shrouded in a haze of cold and pain. An icy winter night. Slick, frozen roads over an old, narrow bridge. Swerved to miss an oncoming carriage. Crashed through the wooden railing. Died instantly.
What Stephen remembered most clearly of all was being seventeen years old and trying to comprehend the fact that his parents were never coming home.
Adam had only been twelve at the time and had never been the same again.
Stephen had taken over. He had tried to fill his father's shoes. But at seventeen or twenty-seven, and even now at thirty-seven, more often than not he knew he fell short—at least where Adam was concerned.
John St. James, Jack as everyone had called him, had been a big man, a happy man, a man who knew everyone's name and used them frequently. He had loved life, and it had loved him—at least until that night so many years ago when his luck ran dry, pinching out the flame that had burned so brightly and intensely that, when it was gone, many were left alone in the dark. Even now, twenty years later, Stephen missed the man as much as he had that first day, perhaps even more.
Harold finally snapped his bag shut and sighed. "Well, if I'm to be straight with you, Stephen, I don't hold much hope for your shoulder to be of much good to you any longer. At least not in the way you're used to. You'll get accustomed to it, though. I've seen it before. The body adjusts. Amazing thing, the body. Just like a three-legged dog gets along just fine without that missing leg."
Stephen looked on, his face tight in stony silence.
Harold seemed to realize that comparing Stephen's condition with a three-legged
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