Читать книгу Echoes in the Dark - Gayle Wilson - Страница 9

The flight to Guadeloupe had been restful. There was something to be said for flying first class and being waited on. It was an experience she thought she could grow accustomed to. All she needed were a few more opportunities to try it, she thought in amusement.

The call had been unexpected in spite of the approval she had sensed in the lawyer’s attitude. She had learned in the past few years not to expect anything good. She would have rejected that thought as self-pitying, would never have consciously allowed it to form, but it was true, and it colored her view of the world. The offer of this job had been, to her, truly a miracle.

She watched the islands unfold below the plane in a seemingly endless chain of green dots rimmed with the white pearl of surf against an iridescent shimmer of blues. The scene looked like something out of a travel film, except she was here. She was to be the social secretary to a wealthy widow whose family owned an island. She smiled at the image of herself in that setting, but the reflection in the plane’s window mocked her doubts. She certainly looked as if she belonged.

She had put her long, sun blond hair up today and had worn more makeup, in hopes, she supposed, of making a good impression. She had even bought a new dress—an emerald linen, very businesslike, except for what it did to the green of her eyes. There would never be anything businesslike about her eyes.

She had followed to the letter the lawyer’s instructions about what to pack. She had also read the friendly note from her future employer so many times the paper threatened to come apart at the folds. It had been reassuring, warm and inviting. Of course, Madame Rochette had been under no obligation to write at all, so the gesture seemed to indicate that she would probably enjoy their relationship as much as she hoped. She tried not to, but she found that she was, indeed, hoping that this all would work out to be as pleasant as it seemed.

The lawyer had given explicit instructions about arrangements for reaching the island, including travel from the airport, ferry times, an endless list of minutiae that she also intended to carry out to the letter. She was surprised to find, however, that when she came through customs and presented her passport, there was an immediate flurry of officialdom that led her eventually to the door of a private office while her escorts went rushing off to find her bags. She followed their instructions, entering the office to find it occupied by someone quite different from the officials she had encountered so far.

“Ms. Evans?” he asked, unfolding his long body from the leather chair. He had been reading a newspaper, comfortably invading someone else’s office with a tall, cool-looking drink within arm’s reach. A tropical-weight tan jacket draped broad shoulders and fell loosely to his narrow hips. The lean length of the legs below was emphasized by the skintight and well-worn jeans he wore. His hair was darkly curling and long by current standards. It fell below the collar of the jacket, but on him it looked right, finished the picture of a man who was perfectly at ease with the persona he had chosen, perfectly suited for the tropics. He was, of course, deeply tanned, the contrast as sharp between the crystal blue of his eyes and the dark gold of his skin as it was between the flash of white, even teeth in the smile he gave her.

“You are Caroline Evans?” he said. “My reputation won’t stand an attempt to pick up some strange woman at the airport.”

I’ll just bet it won’t, she thought, but she smiled, extending her hand to reassure him. “I’m Caroline Evans.”

“Andre Gerrard,” he said. His handshake was pleasantly firm and brief. “My sister asked me to meet you. Our transportation arrangements can be a little confusing for someone not born to boating everywhere. She asked me to take you to the island. I have my boat and can have you there, resting from your journey, much quicker than if you wait for the ferry. I hope that’s all right. I have identification,” he said, perhaps seeing the hesitation in her face.

“Since Madame Rochette didn’t mention her brother’s name, I don’t suppose that would help. Besides, it seems that everyone here knows who you are. The cooperation of the airport staff should be recommendation enough of your credentials. I don’t think they’d contrive to help you kidnap ‘some strange woman.’”

The laugh that broke from him was rich and full, and its ease touched a chord somewhere deep inside. She liked men who were unselfconscious enough to laugh like that. She found herself studying the laugh lines around the blue eyes and realized that he was now simply smiling at her scrutiny.

He’s probably used to having that effect on women, she thought. He certainly has the right equipment. And knows it. And knows how to use it. And I am a cynic, she chided herself, smiling, but he took the smile caused by that admission as an answer to his own. By that time, her bags had arrived, and there was no more time for conversation.

When he handed her into a Porsche, she wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t new, but classic, lovingly cared for, and he drove it well. They didn’t talk against the force of the wind. Eventually she took the pins from her hair and let it whip in tangling strands around her face. Not very businesslike, but what the hell. He’d been sent to pick her up, and she’d had no choice in her means of transportation. She’d attempt repairs once they reached the island.

The boat, too, fitted her image of the man at her side. It was sleek and fast, not new, but again classically styled, wood with brass fittings. She knew nothing of boats, but recognized the money and time it would take to care for something like this.

He controlled the boat with the same unthinking competence he had used to handle the convertible while the salt air finished the disorder of her careful hairdo. He had handed her in and out with that strong brown hand, and as she walked up the steep steps from the landing, she could still feel the strength in those steadying fingers tingling against her palm.

He had held her hand a fraction of a second too long, and she tried to ignore the long-forgotten messages such a gesture evoked, but she was attracted. She was honest enough, with herself at least, to admit it. She couldn’t remember when she had been so attracted to a man, and the irony of that thought wasn’t lost on her.

She took a deep breath as they neared the top of the stairs and the beginnings of the flagstones of the patio that stretched behind the modern house that commanded the summit of the island. It was nothing like the ancient family estate she had imagined. Instead it was sleek glass and cypress, but it was as imposing in its size as her imaginary mansion.

She shivered involuntarily, wondering where the sudden chill had come from in the warmth of the tropic sun. She must have paused because she felt his hand in the small of her back, a gentle movement of its thumb against her spine.

“It’s all right. Don’t be nervous. We’re very informal around here. It’s the ambience of the tropics, I suppose. All this lushness,” he reassured. When he laughed, she glanced up into that beautifully masculine face to find a look of real compassion for her nervousness. “No one’s going to eat you. I promise. No big bad wolf.”

She smiled at her foolishness and, unconsciously straightening her shoulders, started across the wide expanse of the patio. He followed, easily carrying both her bags, which he set down just inside the room they entered through the French doors. They waited a moment for their eyes to adjust to the pleasant dimness, so she missed the rise of the figure from the long coral couch across the room. The woman was halfway across the gleaming quarry tile, her hands extended, before she was clearly visible.

“Caroline? Of course. I was quite specific in my instructions. I wanted someone young and attractive and fun. I really do need help with those endless letters. God knows, I’m weeks behind, but that wasn’t my prime motivation. I just wanted someone to be friends with. I hope we will be. I’m Suzanne Rochette.”

By that time she was there, but instead of taking Caroline’s outstretched hand, she pulled her into a quick hug and then held both her shoulders to study her features.

Caroline’s first impressions were jumbled by the unexpectedness of the greeting. Nothing was as she had anticipated. The figure before her wore jeans as aged as her brother’s, a faded T-shirt and was barefoot.

Even given the ambience of the tropics her brother had talked about, the attire seemed strange for such wealth. Of course, she knew nothing about that. Who was she to judge? She realized that something was expected of her, so she smiled into the friendly blue eyes and was rewarded with a quick squeeze of those small, almost tomboyish hands on her shoulders.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” Suzanne said, smiling.

“I’m very glad to be here and very grateful that you chose me. I’m looking forward to helping you.”

“Well, I didn’t really choose. Paul did that, but I already feel that he made the perfect selection. Has Andre treated you nicely? I have to warn you. He is much sought after and far too sure of his attractions. He’s really a nice boy, but take everything he says with a grain of salt. It’s all too practiced. That’s not his fault, of course, but regrettably true.”

During the monologue on her brother’s character, she was guiding Caroline to the couch she’d been occupying when they arrived. Caroline glimpsed the genuine amusement on her brother’s face and was relieved that this, apparently, was an old joke between them, not something directed at her attraction to him, which she hoped hadn’t been that obvious.

“I’ll remember that,” she said, smiling. She glanced at Andre who winked at her and gently swatted his sister’s bottom.

“How am I going to succeed in luring young lovelies if you persist in warning them off? You’re supposed to be on my side.” He dropped a swift kiss on the blue-veined temple exposed by the dark gamin cut of his sister’s hair. “Why don’t you let me show Caroline upstairs for a rest. She’s had a long journey and would probably like to change and lie down before dinner. You can finish destroying my character later tonight.”

Suzanne released her hand and nodded. “You’re right, of course. I’ll finish my book, and we’ll talk after dinner. Slacks are fine. We only dress if there are guests. I’m very glad you’re here,” she finished, reaching to touch her lips gently to Caroline’s cheek.

“I’m very glad to be here.” Caroline’s answer was sincere, and she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She couldn’t have imagined a warmer greeting than she had been given. It was balm to the tension that had held her since the plane had touched down. “Thank you. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

“Somebody will come for you so you won’t get lost. We eat around eight. If you’re hungry now, I can have something sent up. I didn’t think to ask if you’d had lunch.”

“I’m fine. I ate on the flight. I’ll be ready by eight.”

She smiled again into the friendly blue eyes and followed Andre up the stairs. He had retrieved her bags, and she found something reassuring about that, as well—about his carrying them himself instead of summoning some hovering servant. All her preconceptions and fears were dissolving in the ease of their welcome.

“I think you’ll like your room. Suzanne spent days deciding where you should be. You’re close to her, of course, and it looks down on the garden pool. The surf here is dangerously strong, so I wouldn’t advise swimming in the sea, but the pool is available at any time. There are light switches for the atrium in every doorway. I thought you might prefer looking out on the sea, but those rooms are too far from Suzanne to satisfy any urge for a quick nighttime conference, so she decided on this one.”

The suite was beautifully appointed, but not at all formal. The colors were the muted greens of the waters closest to the shore and the creams of the surf. The decorator had used a shell motif sparingly in the border and spread. Andre opened the floor-to-ceiling louvered windows, and the garden that the house surrounded was just below, lushly planted around the pool. The tiles of the pool were navy, the richness of its dark depths contrasting the sparkle of the sun on its surface and the colors of the flowers that surrounded it.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, breathing in the fragrance of the blooms that were wide and drooping in the afternoon heat.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, apparently assuming her comment to refer to the room rather than the tropical paradise she supposed he was too accustomed to even notice anymore.

“I like it very much. Thank you for everything, especially for taking time to meet me personally. I was a little concerned, despite all Monsieur Dupre’s careful instructions.”

“You’d have managed. Everyone’s very friendly. I wanted to meet you. It was my pleasure.” He smiled, the blue eyes warm.

The silence grew between them. She wondered if his words had been intended to convey the attraction she was attributing to them or if, as his sister had said, he was simply so practiced at flirtation that he did this intimate smile and meeting of the eyes automatically.

“Well,” he said finally, “I’ll let you rest. I’ll see you at dinner. I’m looking forward to seeing you at dinner.”

There could be no mistake about the intent of the fingers that closed gently around her hand and raised it to his lips. They barely touched the skin, but the warmth of his mouth and the gentle breath he took before he released her hand was electric. The current flared briefly in his eyes before he turned and retreated across the thick, foam green carpet.

When he had closed the door behind him, she looked out into the richness of the garden again. She shook her head in a slow, deliberate, negative movement and then closed the doors against the reflected glare of the pool.

She slipped out of the linen dress that had already begun to wilt in the heat and humidity. She hung it carefully in the cedar-lined closet and removed her heels and hose. Turning back the thick spread, she lay down against the cool, lavender-scented sheets that seemed vaguely comforting and, because she had slept so little the night before, she drifted easily into sleep.

* * *

“I TAKE IT our guest has arrived?” The quiet voice was carefully emotionless, but Suzanne knew Julien well enough to read a lot that he intended to hide.

“She’s here, all right. I just don’t understand why she’s here. What possible purpose do you believe allowing her to come here will serve?”

She ran her small hands across the broad shoulders and massaged the tension she could feel in the strong column of his neck. He rolled his head in response to the release that her fingers were kneading into the tight muscles, but he didn’t answer her question, just as he had refused to explain his reasons from the beginning.

“Why? Why? Why are you putting yourself through this?” she asked, her small fist pounding an emphasis to each question against the corded muscles of his upper arm until he caught her hand and held it still with the tensile strength of his. His thumb massaged her knuckles, and he laughed.

“Expiation,” he said, and his voice was rich with the laughter that still lurked behind the word.

“Expiation?” she repeated, pulling her hand free. “Expiation.” This time it wasn’t a question. “Are you sure that’s the right word? Are you sure that’s what you mean?”

“What word do you think I mean?” he asked, still amused by her anger.

“Retribution,” she whispered, wondering as she had from the beginning if it were possible he had not told her the truth.

“Like some Old Testament injunction? An eye for an eye? Is that what you expect?”

“I don’t know what to expect. I thought I understood you. I thought I knew you, and then...” She shook her head in frustration.

“I need to understand why...after all these years...” The deep voice faded, unable to put into words what he felt.

“You always tried to understand. God, Julien, sometimes...”

The taut mouth relaxed at her anger for his sake, and he smiled. “Because there’s always a reason. I just have to determine what it is.”

“I don’t want her here,” she said, knowing the other was an argument she couldn’t win. “I don’t like this. I don’t want any part of it.”

“But it’s too late for that. She’s here. We’re here, and I think we need to find out what this is all about. Don’t you? Don’t you really believe that it’s time to finally finish whatever this is?”

“Is that what you intend? To put an end to it?”

She ran her hand through the dark hair that curled against her fingers. She rested her palm against his temple and finally bent to lay her cheek against the ebony curls. His lips curved again into a smile in response, and he raised his hand to touch the small, comforting fingers.

“Expiation,” he repeated. “I told you.”

“I just don’t want you hurt again,” she said.

“She can’t cause me pain. I promise you that. I don’t think—” he began and then paused.

“What?” She raised her head, moving so she could see his face. “What don’t you think?” she asked again and he smiled at her.

“I don’t think I want to talk about this any longer,” he answered truthfully, “but I don’t want you to worry. Let me worry about what’s going on. It’s not your concern.”

“You know that’s ridiculous. I don’t understand what you’re thinking. Talk to me. Who is she?”

“I don’t know who she is, but I damn well know who she’s not,” he said harshly, bitterly, and then deliberately modified his voice to hide the anger. “I promise you, that’s all I know. What Paul told us. Nothing else.”

“And in spite of that, you’re still...”

But she watched as his eyes moved away from her face to the sound of the surf that pounded against the volcanic rocks below the deck on which he was sitting. When he shook his head against her questions, she knew he had told her all he intended. She moved her hand down the back of his head, touching his neck again, and then silently, on bare feet, she left him to contemplate alone whatever it was he was planning.

She had never been able to change his mind, not once he’d decided on a course of action, and obviously he’d decided what to do about the woman who had just arrived.

“Expiation,” she whispered, and went to look up the word, to verify that it meant what she thought. In spite of her accusation, he would never use the wrong word. He was far too careful. When she found it, it meant exactly what she had thought, so she was left to wonder still what he planned.

* * *

CAROLINE WAS ASLEEP when the maid tapped lightly on the door. She awoke instantly in the tropical darkness, disoriented for a few seconds.

“Mademoiselle,” the maid spoke from beyond the doorway, “Madame asks that you join the family for dinner if you’ve rested enough.”

“Of course. I overslept. Please tell them I won’t be long, and then, if you would, come back for me?”

“Of course, mademoiselle.”

She felt drugged, too deeply asleep, but she knew that she had to rise and dress. She ran her fingers tiredly through the tangled strands of her hair, realizing with dismay that she hadn’t even unpacked.

She pulled one of the suitcases onto the bed, rummaging until she found a pair of white slacks and their matching top. They were slightly wrinkled, but surely everyone would expect that. She slipped them on with a pair of white sandals and pulled out her makeup bag to repair the ravages.

She wished she had time to remove her old makeup and start over, but she hated making everyone wait. She brushed her hair to untangle it and could feel the effects of the salt air. She left it loose, worrying that it might be too casual, but at least it was quick.

She was ready when the maid returned. She followed her down the long hall and the wide, freestanding central stairs into the room she had entered today, a room whose long windows looked out now only on dark sky and sea and moon.

Suzanne rose gracefully and took her hand. “You look rested. Did you manage to sleep?”

“I probably have sleep creases. I was still asleep when the maid knocked. I’m so sorry I made you wait.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Suzanne reassured. “That’s one art you learn in this climate. It’s fatal to hurry. No one does. We’re one drink ahead of you. What would you like?”

“Juice, soda, whatever you have. Nothing alcoholic,” Caroline requested, following the small figure to the bar.

Suzanne had changed into a turquoise silk jumpsuit that fit every curve of her perfectly shaped body. She made Caroline feel as tall and gawky as she had always felt as a teenager.

“A teetotaler,” Andre said, laughing. “We make our living here making rum, and you’ve invited a teetotaler.”

“Andre,” his sister chided, handing her a glass full of ice and some sort of mixed juices. It was very refreshing, its cold tartness chasing away the last of the grogginess.

She knew they were wondering if she had a problem with alcohol. Most people who didn’t drink at all were either alcoholics or had strong feelings about the use of spirits. She fell into neither category, but she couldn’t think how to phrase any explanation of her situation that would fit into this casual atmosphere.

She simply sipped her drink, watching Andre fix two Scotch-and-waters. He carried one to the fourth occupant of the room who had been sitting so quietly that she hadn’t noticed him in the low lighting. He had chosen the most shadowed corner, and she wondered suddenly if that might have been deliberate. It had certainly afforded him the opportunity to study her without her being aware of his scrutiny.

Suzanne spoke at her elbow, “You haven’t met my older brother. He’s the patriarch, the one who keeps us all in line. Come and meet Julien.”

Their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud against the stone tiles of the floor. She wondered suddenly if that’s why Suzanne had been barefoot this afternoon, to avoid this echoing parade across the room.

“Caroline, I’d like you to meet my favorite brother.”

They both heard Andre’s soft laugh behind them, but Suzanne ignored his response to her provocation and continued her introduction. “Julien, this is Caroline Evans. I’ve invited her to be my secretary and companion while I’m here.”

Caroline’s thoughts that night after she had gone to bed all concerned her stupidity in not putting it together sooner. The dark, aviator-style sunglasses in the dimness of the room. Andre’s solicitude with the drink. She hadn’t yet realized the reason those things were necessary. She had simply extended her hand and waited.

Suzanne reached out and took her hand quite naturally and, holding it gently in her own, lowered their joined hands between them as if they were such close friends they couldn’t bear to be apart. She smiled into Caroline’s eyes to banish the embarrassment, but they both knew that somehow the man who sat so quietly in that shadowed corner was perfectly aware of what had just happened.

He was very like his brother, as deeply tanned, with the same strong, squared chin and darkly curling hair. He was, perhaps, even better looking, his features more classically shaped. It was difficult to tell behind the dark glasses.

His tone was completely neutral when he spoke, his voice deep and rich, his English only slightly accented. Since she had expected him to address her in French, as the others had naturally done, his decision to greet her in her native language seemed a nice gesture.

“Ms. Evans, I’m delighted you’ve consented to join us here. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. I doubt that even Suzanne’s social correspondence will totally occupy your time. Please feel free to enjoy the islands. If you need anything, I hope you’ll ask. Andre will make an excellent guide, and if I know my brother, he’ll be more than willing.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, still embarrassed by her faux pas, “but I’m here to work, to help your sister. I don’t think I’ll have time to play tourist.”

“Andre will probably insist you find time. He’s already been extolling your beauty,” he said. Realizing that comment demanded some explanation, he continued softly, “I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity which, I admit, prompted his comments. We don’t usually discuss our guests, but a brief description helps me to visualize someone I’m meeting for the first time.” The dark glasses were focused somewhere beyond her left shoulder.

“I don’t mind. Especially since your brother chose to be very flattering. I’m looking forward to staying here. Your home is very beautiful.”

“And not at all what you expected,” he suggested. His lips lifted into a slight smile, and something about that movement caused a flutter inside her already nervous stomach.

“No,” she managed. “To be truthful, I’d expected a much older house.”

“The original house was destroyed by Hurricane David. Not a very romantic name for a storm, and that house was very romantic, steeped in history and haunted, I’m sure, by several well-authenticated ghosts. I built this house to replace it. It’s about ten years old.”

“You don’t miss the other at all.” Suzanne laughed. “He hated it. He couldn’t wait to design and build this one. He talked for months about what the site demanded and stresses and forces and who knows what else. I don’t know how the workmen ever got anything done with him adjusting every beam and pillar.”

“You’re an architect?” Caroline asked unthinkingly and knew by the tension, by the sudden movement of the small hand that finally released hers, the error she had made.

“Not anymore,” he said into the uncomfortable silence that fell in spite of their well-bred politeness. “I finance houses. I invest in companies that build them, but I don’t design. Not anymore, Ms. Evans.”

His voice had softened on the last, and she could almost hear the effort he made to speak naturally when he continued, a change of the awkward subject her remark had forced. “Suzanne, if you’ll take me in to dinner?”

He rose too suddenly, unaware perhaps of how close they stood to his chair or still bothered by the insensitivity of her comment. He moved so quickly that her instinctive step backward unbalanced her, and she grasped the nearest object to keep from falling. The solidness of the muscle under the navy silk shirt was reassuringly steady. She quickly regained her balance, releasing his arm as if she’d been scalded.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his words conflicting with her own agonized apology, so that they both stopped and waited.

“It was my fault,” she said finally, knowing she was blushing.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Evans. I hope you’ll forgive my clumsiness. Suzanne?”

He fitted his hand around his sister’s upper arm, and she led the way to the small table that had been set on the patio.

The meal was long and the atmosphere relaxed. The food was simple and delicious, a mixture of French and Creole dishes that reminded Caroline of New Orleans. The conversation flowed easily with Andre and Suzanne bearing the burden, seemingly without any conscious effort.

The man at the head of the table said little, and Caroline wondered if that were because his full attention was required for the process of eating. She was fascinated by the movement of his long brown fingers against the array of crystal and china. He never made a mistake. There was no clink of misplaced glass or fork, no need for the use of the napkin. She would never have known he was blind, she thought, not from this.

She wondered how long since he’d lost his vision. Less than ten years. She thought of those long years of darkness and wondered if he had ever been as laughingly sensuous as Andre, as confident of his power to attract. He was still, in spite of the dark glasses that hid the sightless eyes, a very attractive man.

At the realization that she had been watching those lean, tanned hands, she dropped her gaze to her plate and tried to concentrate on the story Andre and Suzanne were telling together, running over each other’s best lines. Something about a visitor to the original house who had been a sleepwalker. It was an old routine they had obviously used often in the past to entertain, but, although she laughed when they finished, she had lost the thread. Eventually, a relaxed silence fell over the group.

“Why don’t you take Ms. Evans to the deck and show her the surf,” her host suggested to his brother. The glasses moved toward her face when he explained, “You can hear it even from this side of the house. It’s a sound that will become as familiar as your own heartbeat, but the first sight is awe inspiring.”

Suddenly, she knew she didn’t want him pushing Andre to entertain her. It wasn’t necessary, and it was somehow insulting.

“Tomorrow,” she said, rising. She hoped she wasn’t being rude, but she was tired, and she wanted to sort out the impressions of the crowded day. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to turn in. I was up very early this morning, and in spite of the nap, I still feel the effects. Forgive me, please, and good night.”

Both men had risen automatically, but it was the older who again commanded.

“Of course. Andre, would you show Ms. Evans to her room? I hope you sleep well.”

“Good night, Caroline,” Suzanne spoke, still curled comfortably in her chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll get started on the endless grind. I’m really very glad you’re here.”

Caroline followed Andre through the French doors and across the tile to the stairs. Neither was aware of the angry voice that spoke behind them on the patio.

“What the hell are you playing at? Blindman’s buff? Take you in to dinner.” Suzanne’s voice was rich with ridicule. “I almost threw up. My God, Julien, what kind of act was that?”

He laughed in the darkness and stood, holding out his hand for her. She finally took his fingers, and he pulled her up. They walked arm in arm to the edge of the patio, but she wasn’t the guide this time.

“I thought it was wonderfully affecting. A moment full of poignancy. Personally, I was deeply touched,” he said, smiling, but the mockery was all self-directed.

“Damn it, Julien, you explain what you’re doing, or I swear I quit. I swear I’m on the next flight to Paris. You almost knocked the poor girl down.”

“The poor girl?” he questioned softly. “I thought you didn’t want her here. I thought your sympathies were all for me, your concern.”

“When I think you need it. Not when you’re putting on some helpless blind-man routine for the tourists.”

“And how did the tourists respond?” he said softly. She knew suddenly from something in that carefully emotionless voice she was used to reading how much he wanted to know about their guest’s reaction to his blindness, and to know that, he needed her help.

“She did all right. I’d say she even...”

“Even what?” he asked finally when she refused to go on.

“She watched your hands. At dinner.”

“And?”

She could feel the tension in the hard body beside her, leaning lazily against the stone railings of the patio.

“She was all right. It didn’t make her nervous. As a matter of fact, I’d give her an eight, maybe even a nine.” They had devised the code years before, rating reactions to his blindness.

They didn’t speak for a long time, and in the silence she could hear the surf booming against the rocks. Like a heartbeat.

“Take me up to bed, Suzanne,” he said softly, hugging her small body close.

“You go to hell, you bastard. You always get your way. You go to hell,” she said.

She could hear his laughter following her inside and up the stairs to her room. She didn’t know why she was so angry with him, but thinking about that dark laughter, it was a long time before she slept.