Читать книгу The Danforths: Toby, Lea and Adam - Anne Marie Winston - Страница 10

Five

Toby refrained from tugging on the tie he was convinced was invented to maintain a choke hold on mankind in general. Though no longer the same little boy who so vigorously resisted being forced to attend such stuffy affairs as this particular fund- raiser in the heart of old Savannah, Toby still preferred the smell of horseflesh to the cloying perfumes wafting through the lobby of the elegant Twin Oaks Hotel. Nor had his palate ever evolved enough to appreciate the taste of caviar, which was heaped in crystal bowls strategically placed around ice sculptures. He’d still take fried chicken packed in a picnic basket any day over black fish eggs that looked better suited for bait than dinner. Not to mention how much better a beer quenched a man’s thirst compared to the dry champagne in the flute he held.

His glass froze halfway to his lips as an enchanting creature swept into the room. His heart thumped hard once, twice, three times in a rapid staccato before skidding to a complete halt. Had a pair of misty-gray eyes not sought his out at that very moment and shocked his poor heart back to working order, he might have made a complete fool of himself by spilling that fancy champagne all over himself and his brother Jacob, who was attempting to have a conversation with him.

“Then she said…”

Toby feigned an interested expression and nodded as if he was actually listening. He did not, however, take his eyes off the vision in blue who was making her way across the crowded room. Even though he’d mostly seen her wearing casual jeans and baggy T-shirts, he would have to be blind not to have noticed how pretty his son’s new nanny was. The gown she chose for tonight’s gala affair was not nearly so unassuming. Its satin fabric hugged her figure and accentuated her womanly beauty in such a striking fashion that every eye in the room was drawn toward it. Or rather to the woman wearing it.

In such a gown, Heather looked no more like a nanny than Cinderella looked like someone destined to sweep hearths for the rest of her days. If anything, Heather reminded Toby of an ice princess as she coolly made her way toward him. The way her gown so lovingly caressed her curves made him believe it had been designed expressly for her. Classic in design, the garment was a shimmer of sequins and beads that glittered with each step she took.

The hemline was deliberately angled from below one knee to midthigh on the opposite side. At five foot two inches tall, Toby had no idea Heather’s legs could look so long and shapely in a pair of strappy silver shoes designed to make a man want to hang himself with his necktie. Her legs went on forever. He tore his gaze away from the sight only long enough to glare at the other men whose gazes were transfixed on the heavenly apparition floating across the wide expanse of the lobby.

Jacob jabbed his brother in the side and asked, “Where the hell’s that one been all your life?”

“Presumably checking on Dylan,” Toby answered dryly.

He took inordinate pride in the fact that he managed a swallow of champagne without choking on it. He drained the flute and set it on a passing waiter’s tray. Not wanting his brother to see that his hands were shaking, Toby shoved them deep into his pockets and leaned against a marble column for support. He struck a pose of accidental insolence.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Jacob countered. “Not all women are like Sheila, you know.”

“Don’t tell me Genie’s twisting your arm to get you involved in one of her harebrained matchmaking schemes.” His groan conveyed more than words alone ever could.

Though the smile that crossed Jacob’s face might be considered sly, his manner was so sympathetic that it invited Toby to open up as he used to when they’d shared their deepest secrets from their bunk beds after the lights were turned off.

“I don’t believe in pushing a man into something he doesn’t want, but I’ve got to tell you, little brother, that after fighting it tooth and nail for way too long, marriage is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m not much for giving advice, but I’m going to tell you something that I hope you take to heart. Don’t let one bad experience scare you away from happiness. It’s one thing to carve a niche out for yourself in the wilds of Wyoming and quite another to hide from life completely.”

Since those words came from his brother and because they were motivated by sincere concern, Toby chose not to hit him square in the mouth as he would any other man who would presume to chastise him. As it was, he simply stepped aside when his sisterin- law Larissa linked her arm through her husband’s and drew him to the dance floor with an apology to Toby. The sight sent a tiny twinge of jealousy through him.

It was all well and good for Jacob—barely back from his honeymoon—to lecture him on the glory of wedded bliss, considering the fact that he had never been divorced. His marriage wasn’t based on deceit. His wife hadn’t lied about using birth control and deliberately gotten pregnant in hopes of “snagging” a good catch. Jacob had never had a hole punched through his heart. A hole so big that the wind whistled through it whenever he stepped outside. Never had a woman stolen his son’s voice from him in her haste to move on with a more cosmopolitan life.

Or stolen his own faith in marriages like the one his parents shared for so many wonderful years. It was the kind of permanence he had taken for granted growing up. That his wife wasn’t willing to work through their problems still stung. Toby didn’t wish his brother ill. He just longed to find something as amazing as Jacob had. Fearing that was impossible, it was far easier to turn his back on love altogether than to risk being hurt again.

“Is anything wrong?” Heather asked, stepping beside him and studying the furrows lining Toby’s brow.

She wore her hair loosely pinned at her nape and swept up in a style that was utterly feminine and flattering. A few loose tendrils framed a face that appeared unaware of its own beauty.

He shook his head as if to clear it of old cobwebs and resisted the urge to test the texture of a silken tendril between his fingers. “Nothing, except that you take my breath away. If you’ll just be so kind as to stand beside me for the rest of the evening, your beauty should discourage all the single women my mother has lined up in hopes of fixing me up. Ever since the whirlwind romance that picked Genie up and deposited her in front of an altar with the man of her dreams, she’s been wanting to duplicate the experience for me.”

Heather crooked an eyebrow at him. “I take it you don’t believe in whirlwind romances.”

Who would have thought that a man who looked so at ease in saddle-worn blue jeans could look so fabulous in a tailor-made suit? Had he the inclination, Heather supposed Tobias Danforth could make a living as a model. Not one of those pretty-boy types who bounced a beach ball over a volleyball net, he would be better suited to sales that required a man of rough edges. Heather could picture him in an advertisement that juxtaposed a close-up of the character lines in his face against the backdrop of the Grand Tetons. Or playing blackjack in Monte Carlo wearing the same tuxedo he donned for tonight’s festivities.

Or in a pair of underwear that left little to the imagination and shamelessly played on his sex appeal to sell their product…

A glass of champagne looked like a tempting way to wash away the dryness that had settled into her throat like a desert. Heather nonetheless politely refused the one offered her. She met Josef in a similar setting and, as she recalled, complimentary champagne had done nothing then but cloud her judgment regarding the man who came to be her mentor first—and later her tormentor.

She could sympathize all too well with Toby’s cynicism.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little sour on the subject of romance at the moment,” he told her.

“There’s no need to apologize.” Certainly not to me, she added to herself.

Having no desire to pry into her boss’s private life, Heather hoped to be accorded the same respect in regard to her personal affairs.

Affairs being the operative word, she thought bitterly to herself, wondering why she hadn’t simply worn a hair shirt for the evening instead of something soft and feminine.

Sensing the change in her demeanor, Toby obliged by changing the subject. “How’s Dylan doing?” he asked.

Heather smiled when she thought of Dylan and Peter chasing each other through an inflatable playground that had been set up in an adjoining courtyard.

“You were right. He’s still not talking, but he and Peter are inseparable, and they seem to understand each other well enough without words.”

“Who’s to say that relationships don’t function best that way? Words damned sure didn’t keep Dylan’s mother from turning her back on the two of us, and I guarantee there were plenty of words between us.”

Heather could tell Toby regretted his words as soon as he’d said them. His angry outburst explained much and softened her heart toward him even more. The fact that he kept a photograph of Dylan’s mother on the piano back home made her wonder if he wasn’t still in love with her.

“You didn’t have an amicable divorce?” she asked softly.

“That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one,” Toby replied.

“Sheila’s decision to leave tore our family apart. It was especially hard on Dylan.”

“Except for the day you arrived, he hasn’t spoken a word since his mother left.”

“I’m sorry.”

Heather’s heart went out to him. Not demonstrative by nature, she didn’t stop to think about the ramifications of putting a hand gently to the side of his cheek. Just shaven, his jawline felt smooth and solid against her palm. A gesture born of compassion turned suddenly reckless, producing shock waves so intense in the pit of Heather’s being that they nearly doubled her over. Every nerve ending in her body surged in response to skin touching skin.

Toby flinched and drew a hand from his pocket to encircle her wrist. Heather braced herself. There was no doubt the man could have snapped her wrist in two, had he wanted to, or simply have exerted enough pressure to let her know she had stepped over an invisible line between employer and employee. He applied only enough to let her know he would not release her until he was good and ready to. Heather was not so much frightened as exhilarated in some unfathomably and undeniably sexual way. The strength in his grasp was matched by the sudden flash of desire that turned his eyes the color of thunderclouds rolling across an expanse of blue skies.

“Don’t,” he warned.

The band ended a slow song and paused a moment before playing their next selection. Beneath his hand, Heather’s pulse was beating out a much wilder number. Shuddering, she nevertheless kept her eyes level with his.

A lively Cajun tune started up complete with twin fiddles, a zydeco and an accordion. Like the man who held her captive, it was exciting and dangerous on many levels. Her teachers and parents had done their best to keep her from such “coarse and sensual” music, but alone at night with her radio turned down low, Heather allowed herself to dream her own dreams while her foot tapped out the rhythm of such common, joyful tunes. As far from her classical background as the rambunctious Danforths were from her dispassionate family, such music stirred the imagination. And her blood.

Heather watched his gaze drop to her lips. She refrained from darting a tongue out to moisten them, licking them in an act of nervousness left over from junior high school days.

“Don’t,” he warned again. “Don’t go playing with fire in the midst of dry timber.”

Heather opened her mouth to protest but discovered that her voice had abandoned her. A more aggressive woman might have attempted wrenching her hand free—or maybe even landing a slap upon the features that looked at her with such arrogance. Struck mute, Heather could only watch helplessly as he drew her hand to his mouth and rubbed his lips across the center of her palm. To a curious bystander, it might appear to be a gentlemanly gesture. Heather knew better as she struggled to keep her knees from buckling. His mustache tickled her skin and ignited the very fire which he warned her about.

Nothing but a torrential downpour could extinguish it. Since the day she’d brushed crumbs away from that mustache, Heather had been intrigued by it. Having never kissed a man with a mustache, she couldn’t help wondering just what it might feel like.

Up until now, Heather believed it was impossible for a person to forget how to breathe. Her involuntary shallow gasp was so evident of her bewilderment that it caused a smile of masculine awareness to spread beneath that intriguing mustache of his. It was almost as if Toby knew she was considering the effect of such kisses were they to be scattered at random all over her naked body.

Somewhere between the cold shivers and hot flashes that put her body into a state of utter confusion, a sultry Southern voice rang out.

“Why, Tobias Danforth, you rambling, contrary man. I was under the impression that you had fallen completely off the face of the planet.”

Heather snatched her hand away and hid it behind her back like a child. A cloud of sweet perfume and taffeta stepped between them. A pretty thing, the woman had the distinct advantage of feeling completely at ease among the Danforth clan. She exuded the perkiness of a cheerleader. Heather bet she was the team captain.

Toby fell into the same antiquated pattern of speech used to address him. “Well, I declare. If it isn’t Marcie Mae Webster, all grown up into a sophisticated femme fatale.”

Marcie Mae’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes. Heather envied her the ability to blush on cue. She imagined the woman would be just as at home in a hoop skirt as the designer original that she wore.

“I dare say I’ve changed a good deal since the days we used to go skinny-dipping down in the old sinkhole.”

Unable to endure another sugar-cured syllable, Heather excused herself with the kind of euphemism a woman like Marcie Mae was sure to appreciate.

“I think I’ll go powder my nose, if you don’t mind.”

Clearly Marcie Mae didn’t mind at all. Her smile stretched her lips over a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. Taking Toby by the arm, she led him toward a group of old friends she claimed were just dying to see him again.

Heather tried not to smirk as Toby tossed her a helpless glance over his shoulder. That his apparent misery gave Heather a measure of satisfaction made her feel small.

The feeling was only intensified by stepping into a huge bathroom that reflected the sumptuousness of the rest of the hotel. Potted plants and cut flowers decorated sinks gleaming with gold-plated fixtures. The bathroom boasted high ceilings, a chandelier and several white wicker chairs positioned welcomingly around the room. Staring into one of the many gilded mirrors, Heather recognized the same panic-stricken expression she used to wear before becoming sick to her stomach before a performance.

Heather had never felt completely comfortable performing before a live audience. Few people could appreciate the cutthroat nature of her training. Even though it merely underscored the training she had received at home from her parents, such constant pressure had wounded her sensitive spirit so deeply that she had forsaken her musical gifts altogether.

Turning the cold-water spigot, she ducked down to splash her face.

Heather suddenly realized she wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two women in a darkened corner of the room, and one of them was sobbing so brokenheartedly, it made her stomach cramp in empathy. Not inclined to meddle in other people’s affairs, Heather intended to make a quick exit without getting involved. She would have made it, too, had not the other woman, obviously trying to comfort her companion, cast a desperate glance in her direction and mouthed a request for a tissue.

Heather took one from a hand-painted porcelain container and walked it over to them. The woman who took it looked to be about her same age. Wearing a beautiful white satin gown that accentuated a petite figure, she looked like a guardian angel. The woman shrugged her shoulders and gestured to the slightly open tall door.

“I stumbled upon the poor thing crying like this,” the lady in white explained. She spoke with a slight European accent of some sort. “I didn’t feel right leaving her alone in such a state. You wouldn’t by any chance be an acquaintance of hers?”

Shaking her head, Heather edged toward the door. Just then the injured party raised her head from where it had been hidden behind her hands to reveal twin rivulets of mascara streaming down a face that was too young and pretty to be so angst-ridden. Not old enough to qualify as a woman or young enough to warrant still being called a girl, she was caught in that terrible in-between stage in which one fluctuates miserably between maturity and juvenile behavior. Heather guessed her to be the traditional age when Southern girls had coming-out parties.

The teen’s voice quavered pathetically as she offered two convenient strangers an unnecessary explanation. “It might seem funny to you, but nothing I do is ever good enough to satisfy my father. Absolutely nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound funny at all,” Heather assured her in a gentle, understanding tone. “In fact, I can relate to that all too well myself.”

“As can I,” added the lady in white.

Surprised to discover a common thread holding them together, the women studied each other. In addition to being approximately the same age, the two older women were of similar height and build. And behind their initial wariness was an inability to abandon someone in need.

Rather than watering down the girl’s drawl, her tears had the exact opposite effect. Heather strained to understand the words that slipped out between sobs.

“Can you believe that my daddy actually expects me to throw myself at some old man in the other room in hopes of landing some big business contract? Have you ever heard of anything so vulgar?”

Heather wondered if by “old” she was referring to someone in his midtwenties.

“It absolutely makes me feel like a whore!”

The young lady’s choice of words required yet another tissue to stem the flow of tears that started all over again. Feeling like she was caught in some Victorian time warp, Heather wondered what kind of father would deliberately use a child as a sexual pawn to advance his own ambitions. The answer came to her in a flashback of the day her own parents hustled her across a crowded room to introduce her to Josef Sengele, the master pianist famous for grooming young prodigies for stardom.

“I know how you feel.”

It was not Heather’s voice but that of the beautiful woman standing next to her. She made note of the flicker of pain that creased the perfect beauty of that face. Her voice held a sad ring of resignation. Eyes as brilliant as the emeralds on her ears softened as she put a hand upon the young lady’s shoulder.

“Sometimes you just have to do what has to be done. No matter how unpalatable it might be, business is business and family is family. Come what may, you only have one father in this lifetime.”

The teenager’s sniffles stopped as she paused to consider the free advice.

“I thought I’d stay just long enough to appease Daddy without having to actually compromise myself.”

Having attended innumerable stuffy functions on behalf of her parents, often as the featured attraction of the evening, Heather could certainly understand the desire to please someone whose respect could never be earned. She could not remain quiet on this point.

“Or…” Heather put a hand on the girl’s other shoulder and finished her thought. “Rather than putting off the inevitable for years to come, years that wear away your sense of worth, you could take a stand right now and claim your life for yourself. Trust me. It’s better to risk being disowned by your family than to disown yourself.”

Though her words were intended for the girl sitting between them, the woman in white turned as pale as her gown. She seemed genuinely moved. And oddly wounded by her words.

“You’ll have to make up your own mind,” the woman in white told the teenage girl. “Whatever you decide, just don’t torture yourself with doubts afterward.”

Heather nodded in agreement. Why she felt such a strong affinity to these two strangers was a mystery. She knew only that a delicate cord connected them for this brief moment.

When the bathroom door opened unexpectedly, admitting a pair of elegantly attired matrons, it jolted them all into remembering that they were not sharing confidences in the privacy of a home.

Sighing, the girl admitted, “I’m tempted to just run away and avoid making any decision at all.”

Heather’s life had been comprised of snapshots of so many fleeting encounters that she longed for a continued friendship, if only for this one strained evening.

“I really want to know how the evening works out for you,” Heather told the distraught teen. “Maybe we could decide on a time to meet and find a good spot to watch the fireworks later.”

The girl gave her head an apologetic shake, and the lady in white choked on a dry, painful laugh as she reached first for her silver handbag and then for the doorknob.

“I doubt anyone will be able to miss them,” she said cryptically before disappearing into the waiting throng outside.

Heather wished she had thought to ask for her name.