Читать книгу Trial By Seduction - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

NO! SHE WANTED to cry the word aloud, cursing the fate that had brought him out here. Not Mark Connelly. No...

She couldn’t be so unlucky. She’d known she would see him eventually, of course—but she had expected to meet him in an office, with Purcell Jennings at her side making the introductions. Not here, not when she was speckled with sand and swollen with tears. Not wet and defenseless and emotionally spent.

She clambered to her feet, brushing at her skirt, miserably aware that the soaked fabric clung to her bare legs. It was hopeless. She peeled one last patch from her wet thigh and then gave up.

“You’re right,” she said. Horrified to hear the catch in her voice, she cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve cried far too much. I’m fine now.”

He was still down on one knee and he tilted his head to look up at her. Mark Connedly.

For a moment, in spite of the tattoo, she couldn’t quite believe it was true. She had remembered him so differently. Surely his full, hard lips used to have a sneering twist. And his eyes...they used to be cold, slightly cruel. Didn’t they?

Ten years... Suddenly she felt unsure of herself. Just how much did she remember, really? It had been such a long time. That slightly saturnine arch to his black brow—she remembered that. And his intensely masculine, sexually charged aura—yes, she remembered that, too.

But somehow she had forgotten just how plain all-American handsome he was. The rising sun, which had finally burned through the mist, lit the sea green of his eyes. It touched the bronze plane of his cheekbone with peach highlights and buried itself in the healthy blue-black sheen of his thick hair.

He was hardly the decadent devil she remembered. He was actually quite beautiful.

“Really, I mean it. I’m fine now,” she stumbled on, aware that she was staring. “You’re right. I was just being foolish.”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” he said calmly, still not rising. “There’s nothing foolish about a broken heart.”

She frowned. A what?

“My heart isn’t bro—” she began, but suddenly she stopped. He knew, she realized with a horrible sensation of emotional nudity. He knew all about the pain that had been fracturing her heart into jagged little pieces.

She looked away quickly, out toward the water. The sun, climbing fast, was transforming this landscape right before her eyes.

Her stark, broody study of gray on gray was disappearing. Now this beach was Purcell’s province—the Gulf a shimmering blue ribbon flung out beneath a pink-and-gold streaked sky. Blue and cream and peach-colored bits of shells were scattered along the sand like confetti.

The vivid beauty unsettled her. It was almost too perfect—like this man. Mark Connelly, her number one suspect. Had he always been so gorgeous? How could her memories have been so wrong?

She concentrated on squeezing the water out of the tip of her braid and then tried to brush away the tear trails that crisscrossed her face. But her sandy fingers deposited their gritty residue on her cheeks. She was just making things worse.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said stupidly, unable to find even a sliver of her usual poise. She desperately wanted him to stop looking at her like that. “I don’t usually do this...this kind of thing.”

“Don’t you?” Finally he rose beside her, and she took an involuntary step away. He was so tall, so male...and, even worse, so knowing. It made breathing difficult. “Maybe you should.”

She frowned. “No—I mean...” She tried to smooth back the tendrils of hair that had escaped the tight braid and now curled damply against her forehead. “I don’t need to. I’m usually much more...controlled.”

“Ahhh...” He raised his brows. “Is there so much to control, then?”

She stared at him, unnerved equally by his astute perceptions and his indifference to the universal rules governing small talk between strangers. Had he always been like this? Yes... A sudden memory flashed through her brain like heat lightning. This same man, that same tone...

Ten years ago. Mark Connelly had been only nineteen, but he had already possessed a man’s body and a lethal sexuality that even a twelve-year-old could sense.

Cindy had talked about Mark more often than any of the others. “He’s not the prettiest,” she’d say, “but he’s the most dangerous.” And when Glenna had asked why on earth anyone would want a dangerous man, Cindy had just laughed.

One day, tired of feeling invisible to the teenagers who noticed her only when they wanted her to fetch something, Glenna had wandered away to pout. She had been busy gouging resentful runnels into the sand with a seashell when Mark had plopped down beside her.

She remembered being stunned by the attention. He had been kind in a rather offhand way. Without ever actually saying so, he had hinted that he understood how rotten it was to be the youngest, to be teased and ignored and exploited. And when he had risen again after only a few minutes, he’d looked down at her with something she interpreted as pity.

“It will happen, you know,” he’d said.

She had scowled, instinctively resenting any sympathy. “What will?”

“You’ll grow up.” He’d smiled. “And boys will think you’re pretty.”

She’d been too shocked to answer, staring at him as if he had just whisked a rabbit out of a hat. Without another word, he had ambled away, returning to the cluster of young men who daily attached themselves to Cindy like so many barnacles.

Back then, Glenna had been too naive to realize that it was just a parlor trick. Mark could dip into a little pop psychology, a superficial understanding of human nature, and the girls believed that he had read their minds. Other boys pretended to pull pennies out of the girls’ ears—Mark Connelly pretended to pull secrets from their hearts. Same game, different props.

But now, at twenty-two, she saw through him all too clearly. He played the flirtation game even better today, and she had dealt him the perfect card. You meet vulnerable woman weeping on the beach. Advance three spaces. Skip past small talk, enter premature intimacy.

But he had the wrong sister this time.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said crisply, “but honestly I’m fine. Actually I’d better be getting back to my car.” She brushed her palms together briskly, removing as much of the sand as possible, and held out her right hand. “Thanks again.”

He narrowed his eyes as if her attitude, or perhaps her tone, somehow sparked his curiosity. Taking her hand, he cocked his head and let his gaze slowly rake her face. “You seem so familiar.” He lifted one corner of his lips. “This is an old one, but I have this feeling... Have we met before?”

Not a very imaginative line, but she knew that, for once, it was spoken sincerely. She felt her heart do a two-step and fought to keep her face neutral. She had always known this would be the trickiest part of coming back.

“My name is Glenna McBride,” she said politely. She wouldn’t lie outright—but she could pray that he didn’t remember her real name. Why should he? The teenagers had always simply called her Mouse, Cindy’s pet name for her tiny, timid little sister. “Hey, Mouse, here’s a dollar. Go buy me a Coke, would you? And hurry—I’m dying in this heat.”

Her last name was different now, too. Her parents’ marriage hadn’t survived the trauma of Cindy’s death—they had divorced within two years. Both remarried quickly, as if eager to make fresh starts. Keg McBride, her mother’s new husband, was a good man and he had adopted Glenna right away.

Mark was shaking his head. “Glenna McBride,” he repeated, the name soft on his lips. “No, I guess I’m imagining things.”

He hadn’t let go of her hand. Glenna shifted it subtly, but he ignored the signal to release her. Glenna suspected that Mark Connelly ignored a lot of the signposts in his life.

“Did you say your car? You aren’t leaving, are you? I had hoped you were staying at the Moonbird.”

She took a deep breath. He didn’t recognize her name. First hurdle cleared.

“Well, I am, actually,” she said, plunging ahead. “I’ll be working with Purcell Jennings. The photographer. He’s going to take some pictures of the hotel for a book on old Florida inns.”

Slow down...no babbling, for heaven’s sake. As a member of the Connelly family, Mark would already know about Purcell.

But she plowed on, her confidence growing with every coherent sentence she managed to produce. “Purcell arrives tonight, but I came early to scout around a bit. He’s not as mobile as he once was and he likes me to narrow down the locations for him first.”

Yes, that was better. The half lie sounded fully authentic. She was finding her stride, regaining control.

“But that’s perfect,” he said, obviously pleased, as if complimenting fate for doing such a good job arranging things to his satisfaction. “I’ll show you around.”

Irked, she removed her hand from his with one firm tug. He looked slightly surprised—as if few women ever struggled to make their way out of his grasp.

Well, good, she thought, lifting her chin. An ego like that could use a couple of knocks. And he might as well learn right now that the drooping damsel he’d found weeping on the shore was not the real Glenna McBride.

“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. I concentrate better if I’m alone.”

His mouth quirked. He was clearly prepared either to speak or to grin, but she didn’t have time to discover which. Just behind his shoulder, she saw movement along the beach, and a strong voice carried toward them on the clear morning air.

“Mark!” The tones were deep, authoritative. With a jolt of recognition, Glenna knew immediately that the voice belonged to Edgerton Connelly. The oldest Connelly boy, the leader of the pack. Self-important, slightly bossy. How perfect, she had thought when she heard he was running for the legislature. “Mark,” he said now, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Edge.” Mark turned toward his cousin, who looked impressively elegant but completely out of place here on the beach in his expensive suit. “I’m glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet Glenna McBride.”

Edgerton flashed a smile toward her, a good politician’s smile that warned her he was much too busy to chat but at the same time suggested that he was awfully sorry about it. He also diplomatically refrained from noticing her disheveled state. Apparently even wet, sandy beach-weepers had been known to vote.

“Ms. McBride,” he said with a smooth nod of his well-coiffed blond head. “I’m sorry to have to pull my cousin away, but he’s needed rather urgently up at the hotel.” He angled toward Mark. “The senator’s wife will be here soon, old buddy, and you know she’ll be crushed if you’re not there to meet her.”

Glenna couldn’t see Edgerton’s face, but she thought she heard real irritation lurking under his nicely oiled tones. What the hell, the tone asked, was Mark doing wasting time with a nobody on the beach when The Senator’s Wife was waiting?

Snob, she thought, addressing his Armani jacket.

But Mark either didn’t notice his cousin’s anger or didn’t care. “Sorry, Edge,” he said cheerfully. “Tell Philip to cut the biggest scarlet hibiscus he can find, stick it in a pitcher of sangria and take it to her room. Believe me, in half an hour she won’t even notice I’m not there.”

The Armani jacket stiffened. “Not there?”

Mark patted his shoulder. “Sorry. I can’t. You see, I had just offered Glenna my services as a tour guide.”

Edgerton made a small choking sound, but Glenna broke in quickly. “And I,” she said, “had just refused them. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Connelly, but as I said, I work best alone.” She met Mark’s quizzical gaze steadily. “Besides, I wouldn’t dream of letting you disappoint—” she lowered her tone “—The Senator’s Wife.”

Surprisingly he didn’t try to persuade her. He didn’t even look disappointed. Instead, he looked curious. He lifted one black brow. “Did you say Mr. Connelly?”

“Mark,” she amended indifferently. If he wanted to rush to a first-name basis, she could handle that. She brushed at her skirt one last time. “Well, it was nice to have met you both—”

“But you didn’t.”

She looked up, perplexed. “Didn’t what?”

“Meet me.” He was studying her hard. “And yet you already knew my name.”

She kicked herself mentally, realizing how close she had come to giving herself away. What a stupid move! Honestly, she must have cried her brains right out into the sand.

“Well, after all, there’s no need for false modesty,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “Everyone who lives on Moonbird Key knows the Connellys.”

“But you don’t. Live on Moonbird Key, I mean. Believe me, I’m sure of that.” He held out his hands, palms up. “And, false modesty aside, I don’t flatter myself that my fame extends much beyond the bridge to Fort Myers.”

“Perhaps,” she countered, wondering whether her voice sounded acerbic or flirtatious, “you underestimate yourself.”

Edgerton snorted. “Oh, yeah, sure. Mark underestimates himself. That’ll be the day. Well, come on, we’d better get going.” His voice was more openly irritable now. He took two testy paces toward the hotel and, sensing that no one was following, turned back. “Mark. Ms. McBride said she works alone. We’d better let her get to it.”

Mark didn’t answer him. He hadn’t taken his gaze off Glenna. She met his appraisal as serenely as possible, but the intensity in his eyes made her skin tingle. His curiosity was as tangible as a touch.

“Damn it, Mark. Mark?” Edgerton’s impatient bluster was dissipating, replaced by a thin tremor of anxiety. “Mark, you know I really need you. Please?”

Please? Glenna’s gaze shot toward the older man. Since when did Edgerton Connelly, undisputed leader of the Moonbird boys, have to say please to Mark?

Mark was the poor cousin, the one who lived at the Moonbird on sufferance, the one who hadn’t a penny to his name. “Is that what makes him dangerous?” Glenna had asked her sister. And Cindy had chuckled melodically. “Sort of, Mouse,” she’d said, ruffling Glenna’s hair. “Sort of.”

For a minute she thought Mark might ignore the desperation in Edgerton’s voice. But finally she felt his gaze shift, releasing her like a butterfly unpinned, and he pivoted toward his cousin.

“You’re right, Edge,” he said agreeably. “We wouldn’t want to intrude. Well, goodbye, then—and good scouting.” He started to move away but immediately halted, as if something had just occurred to him. “You’ll be at tonight’s dinner dance, though, won’t you? Purcell will want to come. So I’m sure we’ll see each other there.”

His smile was wicked. He recognized her reluctance to let him come any closer, that smile said. But it also said that he wasn’t so easily thwarted. He was intrigued by her—he wanted more, and he intended to get it sooner or later. That was no surprise.

What did shock her was the small thrill of anticipation that shimmered through her like a silver fish skimming just below the surface of her mind. Dangerous, she thought with an internal shiver. Cindy had been right. This man was damned dangerous.

“Oh, yes,” she said, meeting his laughing eyes, accepting and answering the challenge. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding you. You’ll be the one dancing with The Senator’s Wife, right? The one with the hibiscus between his teeth.”

Actually it was much easier than that.

Even without a hibiscus, Mark Connelly stood out. Suntanned and swarthy as a pirate in his elegant white tails, he was quite simply the sexiest man in the room.

Which was no small feat, because by nine o’clock that night the Moonlight Ballroom was awash with beautiful people. Every adult in Florida who had any pretensions to glamour, power or wealth was here. To miss the grand reopening of the Moonbird Hotel apparently was to declare oneself a nonentity.

Glenna sat quietly at a table with Purcell Jennings. Comfortable together, they didn’t speak. His intense silence told her that his photographer’s eye was already framing, lighting, capturing the essence of the scene before him.

And what a scene it was! In honor of the legendary moonbird, the ballroom had been renovated entirely in shades of white. The walls were covered with creamon-ecru flocked paper; the white ash planks of the dance floor were polished to a starry gloss. A luxurious bouquet of miniature Snow Bride roses adorned each table, and overhead huge chandeliers dripped hundreds of crystal teardrops.

The invitations had requested that the guests wear white, too, and as the women swirled by, Glenna could see how the Moonlight Ballroom got its name. The shades of ivory, cream, vanilla and pearl were like moonbeams dancing on silvered water.

Glenna was impressed—in fact, she had to make an effort not to be downright enchanted. Connelly money had managed to re-create a level of splendor that hadn’t been seen for nearly a century. There must be, she thought, a lot of Connelly money.

“You should be dancing.”

Glenna turned toward Purcell, surprised. As his Parkinson’s progressed, it was getting harder for him to talk, and ordinarily he confined himself to articulating only the essentials. Film, please. Or Less light. Surely he didn’t intend to waste his breath trying to persuade her to dance. He knew it was futile.

“Should I? Why?” She put her hand over his, aware of how little padding covered his long, elegant bones. “I’m enjoying myself here with you. And I suspect that all this pageantry is more beautiful viewed from the outside anyway.”

Purcell shook his head. “Not more beautiful,” he said slowly. “Safer. You always think outside is... safer.”

“Nonsense.” She felt herself flushing. One drawback to Purcell’s condition was that he didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. He stared at her with a piercing gray gaze that shamed her. “Well, maybe,” she modified, pleating the corner of her napkin pointlessly. “But what’s wrong with keeping a cautious distance? What you call cowardice seems like common sense to me.”

Purcell’s thick white eyebrows drew together. “Bah!” His hand twitched irritably, but he didn’t take it away. “Pure twaddle. You need to get to know these people if we’re going to get any decent pictures. Feel, Glenna. Feel what this family, this hotel, are all about.”

“I know, I know.” Glenna smiled, trying not to notice the twinge of conscience that stung her. Purcell approached all his shoots that way—feeting the atmosphere first, then trying to capture it on film.

And for once his dictates dovetailed with her own private agenda. She wanted to get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions. Perhaps, before the photos were finished and their bags were packed, she might even learn which of the three young men had lured Cindy out on that fateful night.

She’d already met Philip here tonight. He might be a good place to start. He had always been the sweetest Connelly, somehow less intimidating than Mark’s roguish audacity or Edgerton’s handsome grandeur. Tonight he seemed to be hitting the champagne bar pretty hard. Even better, she thought. Champagne loosened tongues quite nicely.

“You know,” she said, hoping to distract Purcell, “we really should have brought our equipment. You could have taken some wonderful photographs here tonight.”

Purcell studied the room. “Too damn much white,” he pronounced finally. “Only thing worth shooting is the food.”

Glenna’s gaze shifted to the huge buffet table that dominated one corner of the large room. He was right. The rich red of the strawberry pyramid, the golden brown of the stuffed Cornish hens, the bursting suns of tangerine tarts and orange scones... It made such dramatic visual contrasts with all the elegant moonbeam people.

That woman, for instance, with her multilayered choker of pearls and her elaborately coiffed blond curls, was dangling a blood red strawberry between two fingers, pressing it laughingly against the lips of a man who...

Who looked like...

Who was Mark Connelly. Glenna’s stomach tightened as Mark slowly parted his lips and closed his teeth over the berry. Pale pink juices trickled down the woman’s fingers.

With another coy laugh, she held them up for Mark’s inspection, obviously inviting him to lick them clean. Glenna made a low, reproachful sound—this woman, though beautifully groomed, was clearly old enough to be his mother. Lick her fingers? Surely not.

Smiling comfortably, Mark circled the woman’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger and lowered it. With his other hand, he whisked a handkerchief from his pocket and gently swabbed at the wet fingers. The woman pursed her lips in a mock pout, but she didn’t look terribly disappointed. She looked besotted.

Glenna turned away. She grimaced at Purcell, who had been watching the tableau, too. “Ugh,” she said. “What a display.”

To her surprise, Purcell was smiling. “Why shouldn’t they flirt?” He tilted his head. “A beautiful woman. A handsome man. Soft moon, sweet music, flowing wine—”

“She’s twice his age,” Glenna broke in irritably. “I’m not a prude, but surely a woman of fifty—”

“Sex has no age,” Purcell said firmly. “And you are a prude, my dear. Just a little. You work at it.”

Stung, Glenna tossed her napkin on the table, leaning forward to argue the point, but at that moment a shadow fell across her plate. She looked up, startled, and found Mark Connelly standing just behind her chair. He had brought his strawberry-stained friend with him.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I’d begun to wonder if you had stood us up. I’m glad you didn’t. I’d like you to meet Maggie Levenger.” He smiled right into her eyes. “The senator’s wife.”

The senator’s wife. Of course. Glenna summoned up polite murmurs as the introductions were made, noticing with surprise that Purcell stood to welcome the newcomer, something he rarely did anymore.

Up close, Maggie Levenger looked even older, maybe nearer to sixty, but her eyes were bright and intelligent, her smile generous. Her voice was brassy, a touch too loud, but it was full of self-deprecating humor, and Glenna suddenly regretted her earlier hasty condemnation.

“Mr. Jennings, I know your work well. I adore you.” Without ceremony, Maggie deposited herself in the chair closest to Purcell, leaving the chair by Glenna free for Mark.

Still smiling, he raised one brow—his only acknowledgment that he needed her permission to sit. She nodded reluctantly, reminding herself that his attentions fitted into her agenda nicely. Get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions....

But frankly, Mark didn’t seem nearly as safe a place to start as Philip would have been. She couldn’t imagine being quite subtle enough to fool Mark. And besides, he was physically too...powerful. He seemed to send out electromagnetic signals, inviting women to dash themselves against him like ships against the shoals.

As if unaware of all that, he settled comfortably in the chair, draining his drink, something clear and on the rocks. His open gaze studied her without subterfuge.

“I really am glad you came,” he said, his tone low and somehow intimate. “You look radiant tonight. Like...starlight.”

Toying with her fork, Glenna shot him a look of half-cloaked cynicism. Were his genes automatically programmed to spew compliments when greeting any female? Besides, it was obviously a massive overstatement. In her simple, white-beaded sheath with its demure jacket, she knew that she couldn’t hold a candle to the glamorous guests in their frothing laces, their clinging satins, their cascades of pearls and diamonds.

“Surely you mean moonlight.” She met his gaze directly, to show him without delay that she was not in the market for a flirtation. It would take more than free-flowing flattery to get past her defenses. “After all, that’s the general idea, isn’t it? Moonlight Ballroom, moonbird...”

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, treating her comment as if it had been quite serious. “No, in your case, I think the effect really is more like starlight. Just a little sharper, brighter than moonbeams, you know. A shade less mellow.” He smiled. “But also a shade more exciting.”

She stared at him, momentarily at a loss. “Well,” she said finally, “I’ve washed off most of the sand since you saw me last. That’s undoubtedly an improvement over this morning.”

He let his gaze run slowly across her collarbone, down her arms. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “A dusting of sand can give a woman a rather primitive appeal, don’t you think? Earthy. Abandoned. Sensual.”

She shifted on her seat, wishing he didn’t have such an uncanny knack for getting under her skin.

“On the contrary. It’s dirty. Gritty. Uncomfortable.” She punctuated her words by tapping her fork against the tablecloth. “I much prefer to be clean, brushed and pulled together.”

“In control.” He raised that eyebrow again, and she was struck anew by the brilliance of his green eyes. They were more dramatic than ever in this room full of colorless moonlight, like two emeralds blazing in a bed of seed pearls. “You like control, don’t you? You need it.”

“Of course I do.” Her voice was slightly thin. “Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”

He considered. “In its place, I suppose I do. I definitely enjoy control over my finances. And my enemies.” He paused. “But I place a higher value on freedom. I’ve always believed that a little judiciously placed abandon makes life worth living.”

Her smile felt brittle. “Judiciously placed abandon? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms? Is there such a thing?”

“Of course there is,” he said, leaning back. “Here’s a good example. You’ve decided not to dance with me.” He raised a hand to quiet her confused denial. “Yes, you have. I could see it in your eyes when I sat down. You froze up like the Snow Queen. And why? Perhaps because you’re afraid to get that close to me. You’re afraid you’d lose a little control, maybe melt that icy casing just a little.”

“Good heavens.” Her voice nearly trembled.

“What a preposterous—”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He simply lifted that devilish eyebrow a millimeter higher and kept talking. “But I have to ask myself—what would be wrong with that? It’s only a dance. Even if it was the steamiest dance since Salome, when the music stopped, you probably wouldn’t find yourself morally compromised, socially ruined or pregnant.” Grinning, he hoisted one long, lean leg over the other. “So you see, succumbing in this case would be a perfect example of judiciously placed abandon.”

She smiled reluctantly. And then, in spite of herself, she laughed.

She couldn’t help it. He made it all sound so ridiculous. And, she supposed, it probably was ridiculous to be so determined to keep him at arm’s length. He was just a man. No real threat to her, not in the long run.

She knew his type—the consummate flirt who found her reserve challenging, but who, having once conquered it, would yawn and prowl off toward his next victim.

So why did the idea of dancing with him still feel so dangerous?

“Goodness,” she protested mildly, careful not to overdo it. “You make me sound rather neurotic. But believe me, I’ve never once, in the whole twelve hours I’ve known you, been afraid of you. And I’m certainly not afraid to dance with anyone.”

His eyes glittered with something like triumph. “Wonderful,” he said, taking her hand in his. “In that case...I think they’re playing our song.”

The clever devil. It had all been carefully staged, hadn’t it? Like a complicated chess game. But her urge to laugh was fading fast. His hand was so warm over hers. She could feel the rich blood pulsing in his fingertips.

“I would love to,” she said as calmly as she could. “I truly would. Except that I really must stay here with Purcell.”

Mark glanced over at the photographer, who was still lost in huddled conversation with Maggie. “Must you, Snow Queen? Looks to me as if you could take a slow boat to the North Pole and be back again before he ever noticed you were gone.”

Glenna glared at Purcell, willing him to look up. But, damn the man, he seemed to have forgotten she was alive. Maggie’s trilling laughter wafted toward her, and she sighed, abandoning hope.

She was stuck. She would have to stand up, let Mark fold his strong, warm arms around her, rest his tanned cheek against her ear, enveloping her in the mist of sensuality he exuded. If only she really were made of ice, or snow, or brittle, glittering starlight...

“All right,” she said, swallowing her nerves and smoothing her skirt. “I’ll—”

But at that moment a tiny whirlwind of organdy came swirling toward them, launching itself at Mark’s knees.

“Mark! Help!” The little girl’s voice was desperate, and she wound her fists into his dress shirt. “Daddy says I have to go to bed after this song. He won’t dance with me, but you will, won’t you?”

As Mark hesitated, the little girl twisted her head, noticing Glenna.

“Oh,” she said, managing a smile through her shine of tears. “Hi, Ms. McBride.”

Glenna smiled back. She had met Amy, Edgerton’s five-year-old daughter, earlier that afternoon out on the beach. An uninhibited, precocious child, her yellow bathing suit slipping off one shoulder, her arms poking out to accommodate puffy plastic water wings, she’d been pathetically determined to befriend “the camera lady” and had followed Glenna around for an hour.

“Tell him to dance with me, Ms. McBride. I want to dance with Mark.” Amy’s stubborn frown was ferocious, but somehow, to Glenna, irresistible.

Glenna smiled up at Mark, whose rueful, one-sided grin proved he knew he’d been foiled. Leaning over, she freshened Amy’s crumpled white organdy bow and patted her soft blond hair. “I’m sure he would be honored, wouldn’t you, Mark?” She kept her tone innocent. “In fact, he was just saying that he felt like dancing.”

To his credit, Mark gave in graciously. “That’s right, haif pint. I was.”

Amy bounced gaily. “Awesome,” she said, clapping her hands. “And then when we’re finished, will you take me up to my room, Ms. McBride? Daddy can’t leave the party, and Mamma’s sick again—she’s been sleeping since lunch.”

Glenna looked into the little girl’s expressive eyes—and, though she might have been imagining things, she believed she saw a deep longing behind the brassy audacity. What a life this child seemed to have! Building solitary sandcastles, bothering strangers on the beach. Sleeping alone in a hotel room. Daddy always busy fawning over his important guests. Mamma too frail to bother...

“Sure,” she said impulsively, not allowing herself to wonder what the Connellys would think of such an intrusion. Mark could have stepped in, prevented her involvement simply by volunteering to take the little girl upstairs himself. But he hadn’t said a word. “I’d love to.”

“All right!” Amy threw her arms around Glenna’s neck, indifferent to the crush of expensive organdy ruffles. “Now you’ll both have to tell me stories. Two stories for me!”

“Both?” Glenna glanced at Mark quickly, her heart lurching in sudden nervous awareness. So that’s what his silence was all about. “Two stories?”

“Yes.” Mark rose and took Amy’s hand. “Stories from both Ms. McBride and me. I guess it’s your lucky night.” He cocked his eyebrow as he tossed Glenna a smile over his shoulder. “I think I’ll tell her the one about the Snow Queen.”