Читать книгу The Tycoon and the Townie - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 8

“Excuse me, but is my nose on straight?”

The raspy-cello voice was so sensual that for an instant Jefferson Parrish III thought he must still be dreaming. Lulled by cool Atlantic breezes, he had dozed off in one of the big Adirondack chairs on the open verandah, only to be startled awake by this libido-tickling Greta Garbo voice.

A voice that appeared to be coming from a clown.

“What the devil…?” Jeff blinked himself fully awake, expecting the clown to vaporize. No such luck.

“I need to make sure my nose is on straight. I bumped it getting out of the Jeep. Quick—take a look!”

Too startled to argue, Jeff did as he was told. The clown was certainly no Bozo, he observed. Or Ronald McDonald, either. Short and pudgy in a tie-dyed, padded suit and ragged purple wig, she couldn’t have stretched over five foot three. White greasepaint and a round, red, rubber nose hid whatever features she might possess—except for her eyes. Surrounded by painted circles, they blazed like oversize twin aquamarines.

Fine and dandy, Jeff groused, easing out of the chair and stretching to his husky six-foot height. But unless some ragtag circus had come to Misty Point, North Carolina, he still had no idea why this dumpy-looking little clown would be standing on his verandah in the middle of an ordinary July afternoon.

“Well?” the hypnotic voice demanded.

Jeff ran an impatient hand through his wiry thatch of prematurely graying hair. “Yes, your nose is on straight. Now, would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here?”.

She appeared startled, though it was hard to tell beneath all that paint. “Uh—you are Mr. Jefferson Parrish, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jeff snapped, none too graciously.

“Then you should be expecting me. My agency sent me. I’m Jo-Jo.”

The look he gave her was as blank as his mind.

“The clown you hired for your daughter, Ellen’s, birthday party.”

“The party—oh, blast…” Jeff remembered dimly that his mother had said something about hiring a party clown, but until this moment, he’d forgotten all about it. That, or he was still asleep, and having this bizarre dream….

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “And yes, you are expected.”

“Fine. So, where’s the party?”

“Around the back, on the lawn. My mother’s in charge. She’d be the one who called the agency.”

“And how old is little Ellen?” The clown gathered up a lumpy green duffel bag from the front steps and hefted it to her shoulder.

“She’s nine.”

“Nine!” The phrase she muttered under her breath sounded vaguely like an Irish curse.

“Is anything wrong?”

“It’s just that my act usually goes over better with the three- to five-year-old crowd. For nine-year-olds, you should’ve hired rock musicians!”

“Tell that to my mother. She’s in charge. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Jeff stifled a yawn and took a tentative step toward the front door, hoping Yo-Yo, or whatever her name was, would take the hint and head for the party. His blueprints for the new wing of Heath Memorial Hospital were up for review next week. Vacation or no vacation, it was time he went inside and got back to work on them.

He strode across the verandah, struggling to shake off the ennui that had settled over him in this sleepy little seashore town. It had been a mistake, giving in to his mother’s suggestion that they summer here, in the old family retreat where he had spent so many boyhood vacations. At first Jeff had nourished the hope that the sea air and familiar surroundings would have a healing effect on them all. But it had been an empty hope. Things had only gotten worse.

Even with the hospital project, there was too little for him to do here. And there were too many memories. Too often lately he’d caught himself pacing the confines of his studio, snarling like a caged bear. The discontent had spread to his daughter, as well. Ellen spent her time roaming the dunes of their private beach like a pale little sea wraith. As for Jeff’s mother, she’d thrown herself into projects designed to make their lives seem “all right” again. Projects like this birthday party, for which Ellen had displayed no enthusiasm at all.

Dammit, they should have all stayed home in Raleigh, where they—

“Oh—Mr. Parrish?”

Jeff glanced over his shoulder. The clown was poised on the verandah’s top step, the toes of her enormous, floppy shoes hanging eight inches over the edge.

“One more thing,” she said. “Just so you’ll be aware. I brought my daughter with me today—not that she’ll be a bother to anyone. She’s been told to stay in the kitchen with your cook, Floss, until I finish the party show. Floss is a friend of ours, and she said it wasn’t a problem. Is that all right with you?”

“It’s of no consequence whatsoever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

For the space of a heartbeat she froze, stung, perhaps, by his brusqueness. Then, determined to be cheerful, she thrust out her cherry red chin. “Work? On such a beautiful day? What a waste of creation! But if that’s your choice… Goodbye, Mr. Parrish! The agency will bill you for my time!”

With a toss of her shaggy purple mane, she took one blithe misstep into space, pitched forward and disappeared from sight.

Jeff sprinted to the rail of the verandah to find her sprawled across an azalea bed in a sputtering, tie-dyed heap, her duffel bag lying an arm’s length away.

“Are you all right?” he asked, torn between real concern and wondering how much her lawyer would settle for out of court.

“I…think so.” She wiggled her hands and feet cautiously, then began to struggle like a high-centered terrapin in a vain effort to get up.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” she muttered, collapsing into the azaleas again.

“It’s these—idiot shoes! Half the time I can’t see where I’m going, and if I fall down, they stick out so far I can’t get my knees—under me—”

“And here I thought it was all part of your act!” Jeff suppressed a bemused smile as he trotted down the steps toward her. “Relax, I’ll give you a hand.”

“No—don’t trouble yourself!” she snapped. “Not when you’ve got—so much work to do. I can get up myself if I take it bit by bit.”

“If you insist.” Jeff shrugged, then watched with ill-concealed interest as she tumbled onto her side and drew her knees toward her chest. With effort, she managed to roll her big, clown feet under her, push up with her arms and stagger to a standing position.

“There!” she exclaimed, her voice all more intriguing for its breathlessness. “I told you I could do it.”

“Independent little twit, aren’t you?” Jeff observed dryly as she brushed sprigs of loose grass from her costume.

Her small, ridiculously painted face froze for an instant.

“Independent little twit?” She repeated the words slowly, as if dissecting each syllable. “Independent little twit?”

As Jeff watched, the dumpy clown figure seemed to grow visibly taller. Then, suddenly, she spun toward him, her aquamarine eyes flashing cold fire.

“Independent I’ll accept as a compliment,” she declared icily. “But I’m certainly no twit, Mr. Parrish. I’m a woman alone with a daughter to raise and bills to pay. Jo-Jo the clown helps me pay those bills—but that’s something a man like you might not understand. You’ve probably never had a minute’s financial worry in your smug, arrogant, self-satisfied life!”

Before Jeff could gather his wits, she was gone, waddling across the grass like an indignant Jemima Puddleduck in her padded clown suit. He might have laughed—the sight of her was ludicrous enough—but something in her words and her voice had stung him like a smart blow with a riding quirt.

Good Lord, did he really come across as the woman had described him? Smug, arrogant and self-satisfied? Could that be the reason Meredith had—

But never mind, he brought himself up harshly. It was too damned late to do anything about Meredith, and too late to change his own nature. He was what he was, and right now he had work to do. The plans for the new hospital wing lay open on his drafting table, with hours—many, many hours—of changes yet to be done on them.

Closing his mind to the sunlit ocean air, the cry of seabirds and the vanishing figure of the odd little clown, Jeff strode into the house and shut the door firmly behind him.

Summer people!

Kate Valera’s thoughts seethed as she shuffled across the broad expanse of lawn. Every year the summer people invaded Misty Point like a flock of chattering, inland birds, flaunting their money and their success as if they owned the town. They opened up the elegant frame homes they called “cottages,” raced their Jaguars and Porsches along peaceful back roads and treated the yearrounders like second-rate hired help.

Summer people!

Kate quivered, still feeling the sting of Mr. Jefferson Parrish’s high-handed arrogance. She was not sorry she’d put him in his place. For two cents, in fact, she would cheerfully tell the whole pretentious lot of them to—

But what was she thinking? The economic survival of the town depended on these obnoxious visitors. Her own survival depended on them. They bought her beautiful, hand-thrown pots at gallery prices that made the locals gasp. They paid for her performances as Jo-Jo the Clown, with money that one day, she hoped, would finance an education for her daughter, Flannery. Oh, yes, she needed these people, and she had precious little choice except to grit her teeth and be nice to them. Saints preserve her!

As she came around the house, Kate spotted the party group seated at tables on the far end of the lawn. Not a very promising bunch, she mused glumly. A dozen boredlooking little girls in sundresses clustered around the soggy remains of cake and ice cream, overseen by a tall, stern-looking woman who seemed to have no idea what to do with them. Jo-Jo would have her work cut out for her today!

They had seen her. Kate waved breezily and broke into her prancing side-to-side clown gait. These kids were about the same age as her daughter, she reminded herself. Maybe she could pretend she was entertaining Flannery, and— But, no, she was deluding herself. These privileged little girls were nothing like Flannery. They had seen everything from first-run Broadway shows to the Ringling Brothers Circus. They would not be impressed by one shabby clown with a bag of simple tricks.

The woman, a stately figure in a lilac afternoon dress, with a visage as humorless as the Statue of Liberty’s, left the group and came striding toward her. “You’re late!” she snapped, brandishing the antique bull’s-eye watch she wore on a gold neck chain. “You were supposed to be here seven minutes ago!”

Sorry! Kate pantomimed, rippling her shoulders and spreading her hands in an elaborate shrug. She wasn’t usually silent during her Jo-Jo act, but today it struck her as a useful idea.

“Well, it can’t be helped now.” The woman’s ragged sigh revealed the edge of her own frustration. “Don’t just stand there looking silly. You were hired to do a job. Get on with it!”

And with that stirring introduction…

Kate clicked on the portable tape player in her duffel bag, pranced into the open space between the tables and executed a series of spins and fancy heel clicks that would have enthralled any group of three-year-olds. These jaded little dollies didn’t even blink. Well, maybe the juggling act would impress them; though, in truth, she had her doubts.

Scooping a net of multicolored balls out of the duffel, Kate lined them up on the grass in front of her. For a furtive moment her eyes scanned the young audience. It was easy enough to single out Ellen, the birthday girl. She was seated at the center table wearing a gold paper crown and a wretched expression. She was a beautiful child, Kate observed, with a pale oval face, long black hair and her father’s unsettling gray eyes.

Unsettling…now, where had that come from?

Forcing herself to concentrate, Kate went through the elaborate motions of counting the balls. One, two, three, four, five. She paused and shook her head in a show of bewilderment. One, two, three, four, five. She matched the count on her fingers, her actions indicating clearly that one ball was missing.

Aha! I know where it is! With a crafty expression on her painted face, she crept toward Ellen Parrish. The girl’s lips parted uncertainly as Kate’s gloved hand reached beneath the straight, dark silk of her hair and, with a triumphant flourish, produced the sixth ball.

A wave of giggles, underscored by none-too-kindly whispers, rippled around the tables. Too late, Kate glimpsed Ellen’s unshed tears and realized what she had done. She had embarrassed the sensitive child in front of these clannish girls who were not even pretending to be her friends.

Heartsick, Kate battled the urge to gather the sad little creature in her arms and beg her forgiveness. There was no way to undo what she had already done. But at least she could make sure the other girls got equal treatment. Oh, yes, she could, and she would.

Armed with a new sense of purpose, Kate realigned the colored balls on the grass, scooped up the first three and launched into her juggling routine. That little Shirley Temple blonde in the pink pinafore, the one who was smirking like a fox in a hen yard—yes, she would be next

Warm and restless in his upstairs studio, Jeff Parrish swung away from his drafting table and wandered to the window. Cracking it open, though not so far that the breeze would scatter his papers, he filled his senses with the clean, salty smell of the ocean.

He had loved that scent as a boy—loved it so much that he’d dreamed of running off to a life of exploration and piracy on the high seas. It had never happened, of course. Boys grew up to be practical men. Dreams changed, or they died. Now the smell of the sea only reminded Jeff of how far he had journeyed from his boyhood, how mechanical his life had become, and how empty.

The window gave him a bird’s-eye view of Ellen’s birthday celebration on the lawn below. Judging from the looks of things, it wasn’t going particularly well. His mother had planned the party with the idea of finding Ellen some “proper” friends. She had invited girls from Misty Point’s most prominent summer families. As always, the dear woman had meant well, but there was one reality she had failed to grasp. Most of the young guests knew each other from summers that spanned as far back as they could remember. Sweet, shy Ellen was a newcomer, a stranger to them all.

When Jeff’s daughter had declared she did not want a birthday party, he had dismissed her attitude as plain stubbornness. Only now, looking down at the group on the lawn, did he truly understand her reasons. His Ellen sat alone, isolated in the seat of honor, while the other guests formed their own clusters on either side of her. None of the girls seemed to be paying her any attention at all.

Jeff ached with helpless worry. A more outgoing child might have bridged the gap and made friends. But Ellen had experienced so much aloneness in her young life that she only invited more. Worse, there seemed to be nothing he could do for her. The therapist said these things took time. But how much time? It had been more than eighteen months since Meredith—

Brooding over the past wouldn’t help, he reminded himself harshly. Ellen could only heal in her own time. As for him, the single antidote to what had happened was work.

As he turned to leave the window, his attention was drawn once more to the clown. She was prancing before the group, juggling a rainbow of multicolored balls. Jo-Jo, or whoever she was, had been right about nine-year-olds, he conceded. The lady had drawn one tough audience. But at least she was in there pitching. Not only was her juggling ability impressive, but she was making a real effort to involve the girls.

He watched as one of the balls disappeared into thin air, only to be plucked magically from behind one little blonde’s ear. The young audience giggled—more at the girl, Jeff suspected, than at the trick itself, but at least they were laughing. Jo-Jo the Clown knew her stuff.

Giving in to an impulse, he settled himself against the window to watch. A vague, yearning tingle passed through him as he remembered the husky timbre of her voice and the flash of those intriguing eyes. It would be an interesting challenge to find out what she looked like under that ridiculous wig and makeup. She sounded like a cuddly Lauren Bacall—but then, a man’s imagination played strange tricks. He was probably just as well off not knowing.

She had finished the juggling routine and was digging something else out of her lumpy green duffel. From where he stood, it appeared to be a box of long, thin balloons. Yes—she was blowing them up now, twisting them into clever animal shapes for each of the girls. As entertainment, it was corny, but her skill was mesmerizing. Although he would never have believed it possible, she had those jaded youngsters in the palms of her deft little hands. She damned near had him!

For another minute, perhaps, he remained glued to the window, fascinated by the puzzle of the woman beneath Jo-Jo the Clown. There was something about the quaint little figure—an air of grace and spirit….

But enough of this time wasting; he had work to do!

Reluctantly Jeff forced himself away from the view and back to his drafting table. Shutting out the distractions of the warm summer day and the disturbing little clown, he refocused his thoughts on the hospital plans. The ideas were just beginning to flow again when he heard his mother’s no-nonsense tread coming up the stairs.

“Jeff!—” Her agitated breathing told him she was upset. “You’ve got to come down and help me! It’s Ellen! She’s left her own party! She’s gone!”

Now what?

Kate rummaged in her duffel bag, wondering how much longer she could hold this show together on her own, with no guest of honor and no hostess.

She had glanced up from inflating the last few balloons to see Ellen Parrish slip away from her table and wander off in the direction of the house. If the other girls had noticed, none of them had spoken up, and Kate wasn’t about to call attention to the poor child, who was more than likely just feeling sick to her stomach. It was only a few minutes later, when Ellen’s grandmother caught sight of the empty chair, that the strain had burst into the open.

“Where could that child have gone?” she’d exclaimed, visibly at her wit’s end. “You—Clown—carry on while I go and find out what’s gotten into her!”

Jo-Jo hadn’t been doing too badly up to that point, but now things were beginning to come apart. The girls were whispering and giggling like a flock of restless budgie birds, and Kate knew the cheap pocket toys she’d brought along as favors would be no help at all. Groping in the duffel bag, her hand closed on the spare makeup case she carried for touch-ups. Suddenly she had an idea.

“Say, who wants to be a clown?” she exclaimed, speaking for the first time as she opened the case on a tabletop. “Come on, I need a volunteer!”

The girls buzzed and twittered, then shoved one of their peers to the center of the circle. It was the little Shirley Temple blonde Kate had noticed earlier.

“So, what’s your name, dear?” she asked in an encouraging tone.

“Muffet. Muffet Bodell. My father is—”

“How would you like to be a clown, Muffet?”

“Uh, I guess it would be—”

“Wonderful!” Kate plopped the little girl onto a chair and swiftly fashioned a makeshift cape out of a táblecloth. “Come closer and watch, girls. Then we’ll see who’d like to be next! Now…the first step in putting on clown makeup is to rub on lots and lots of white…”

The other girls crowded around, fascinated, as their playmate acquired a clown-white face, red cheeks and big, round, painted eyes. Kate was just adding some eyelashes when she heard a horrified gasp from behind her.

“No! Oh, no, no, no!”

She turned around to see Mrs. Parrish descending on her like a lavender steam locomotive. “How could you do this?” she snapped. “Muffet is Congressman Bodell’s daughter. Her mother is coming by to pick her up and take her to a wedding. She’ll be here any minute—and just look at the child!”

Kate grabbed a jar of cold cream and a handful of tissues. “I’m sorry, but no one told me a thing. We were just—”

“Here, I’ll do that!” The woman snatched the tissues out of Kate’s hand. “You’re already in enough trouble! I just talked to the cook. Ellen has disappeared with your daughter!”

“Flannery?” Kate’s heart plummeted. “But I told her to stay right there with Floss! She wouldn’t just disobey me and—”

“Well, it seems she did! Floss told me that Ellen wandered into the kitchen and the two of them started talking. The next time Floss turned around, they were both gone! My son’s out looking for them now, but I’m warning you, if anything’s happened to my granddaughter, I’ll hold you responsible!”

Worry, chagrin and indignation yanked at Kate’s emotions. “Look, I know you’re upset, but they shouldn’t be in any danger. Flannery knows the neighborhood and the beaches. She may have disobeyed me, but she’s not foolhardy enough to—”

“Never mind!” the woman snapped. “The party is over! I’ll look after these girls until their parents come for them. Meanwhile, if you have any notion where your daughter might have taken Ellen—”

Kate’s frayed emotions snapped. “Merciful heaven, you’re making it sound as if Flannery’s kidnapped her!” she burst out against her better judgment. “If you think you can just stand there and imply that—”

“I’m implying nothing! I just want my granddaughter found forthwith! Now if you wouldn’t mind—”

“I’m going. And don’t worry, I’ll find them.” Kate waddled off toward the house, clutching the shattered remains of her dignity. She could feel the eyes of the little girls drilling into her back like bullets from a firing squad. For all she knew, they’d concluded she was part of some evil conspiracy to lure small children with her clown act, then spirit them away into slavery or worse. If such a story got around, Jo-Jo would be finished for the season, maybe for good.

That Flannery!

What could have gotten into the child? Kate brooded as she trudged around to the kitchen entrance, intending to speak with Floss. Flannery was usually so obedient. Why on earth would she—

Oof!

The collision with Jeff Parrish was a solid blow, as if she’d run headlong into a brick wall. Kate reeled backward, the physical shock triggering an unexpected rush of tears. After this ghastly afternoon, all she wanted was to find Flannery, pile the clown things into the Jeep, and drive home. The last thing she needed was another encounter with this irritating man!

“Would you like to try that maneuver again? I don’t think I’ve quite gotten the hang of it.” He was standing on the kitchen stoop, making no move to let her pass.

Kate’s defiant gaze measured his muscular frame, moving upward to a square, suntanned face with a nose that would have looked more at home on a prizefighter than the architect she’d been told he was. It was not a glamorous face, not even a handsome face in the usual sense—but he did have unsettling gray eyes. A closer look confirmed that they were the same color as his daughter’s—except that Ellen’s eyes were like stormy sea clouds. Jeff Parrish’s eyes were the cold steel gray of bridge girders.

Kate realized she was staring at him. She groped for a clever remark and came up empty except for the emotions that threatened to bubble over and disgrace her on the spot.

“Oh, get out of my way!” she muttered, starting to edge around him. “I haven’t got time for this!”

Only then did she notice his shirt—a soft polo, obviously expensive, its color an immaculate ice blue against his golden skin—

Immaculate, except for the big, ugly makeup smear in front, where her face had slammed into his chest.

“Oh!” She noticed it the same time he did. “I’m sorry— no, sorry doesn’t say it! I’m mortified! I’ll pay to have it cleaned—”

“Cleaned?” He craned his neck, examining the spot. “No, wait! This could have possibilities! Maybe we could add a stencil saying ‘I Bumped Into Jo-Jo the Clown.’ You know, sort of like those old Tammi Faye shirts that were hot sellers a few years back. Think what great publicity it would be for you, Jo-Jo.”

“My name isn’t Jo-Jo.” Kate popped off the rubber nose and jammed it irritably into her pocket. “It’s Kathryn. Kate. Kate Valera.”

“I Bumped Into Kate Valera. No, I’m sorry. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

“Are you always this sarcastic?”

“Only when it suits me.” The barest hint of a spark flashed in his eyes, only to vanish when he spoke again. “If you’re looking for your daughter, she’s not in the kitchen.”

“I know. Your mother seems to think that Flannery has spirited your Ellen away and is holding her for ransom in some murky cave! I came by the house to see what I could learn from Floss. Then I’m going to look for the girls. So if you’ve still got work to do—”

“I’ve already spoken with Floss. From what she told me, I’d say our two young fugitives have gone to the beach. I was just on my way to look for them. If that chip on your shoulder isn’t weighing you down too much, you’re welcome to come with me.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. “Chip on my shoulder…” she sputtered. “Of all the—”

“That’s what I said.” He steered her away from the house with a firm grip on her upper arm. “Now, stop arguing and come along. We’ve got a couple of lost daughters to find!”