Читать книгу Tears of the Renegade - Linda Howard - Страница 7

It was late, already after eleven o’clock, when the broad-shouldered man appeared in the open French doors. He stood there, perfectly at ease, watching the party with a sort of secret amusement. Susan noticed him immediately, though she seemed to be the only one who did so, and she studied him with faint surprise because she’d never seen him before. She would have remembered if she had; he wasn’t the sort of man that anyone forgot.

He was tall and muscular, his white dinner jacket hugging his powerful shoulders with just enough precision to proclaim exquisite tailoring, yet what set him apart wasn’t the almost dissolute sophistication that sat so easily on him; it was his face. He had the bold look of a desperado, an impression heightened by the level dark brows that shadowed eyes of a pale, crystalline blue. Lodestone eyes, she thought, feeling their effect even though he wasn’t looking at her. A funny little quiver danced down her spine, and her senses were suddenly heightened—the music was more vibrant, the colors more intense, the heady perfume of the early spring night stronger. Every instinct within her was abruptly awakened as she stared at the stranger with a sort of primitive recognition. Women have always known which men are dangerous, and this man radiated danger.

It was there in his eyes, the self-assurance of a man who was willing to take risks, and willing to accept the consequences. An almost weary experience had hardened his features, and Susan knew, looking at him, that he would be a man no one would lightly cross. Danger rode those broad shoulders like a visible mantle. He wasn’t quite…civilized. He looked like a modern-day pirate, from those bold eyes to the short, neatly trimmed dark beard and moustache that hid the lines of his jaw and upper lip; but she knew that they would be strong lines. Her eyes traveled to his hair, dark and thick and vibrant, styled in a casual perfection that most men would have paid a fortune to obtain, just long enough to brush his collar in the back with a hint of curl.

At first no one seemed to notice him, which was surprising, because to Susan he stood out like a tiger in a roomful of tabbies. Then, gradually, people began to look at him, and to her further astonishment a stunned, almost hostile silence began to fall, spreading quickly over the room, a contagious pall that leaped from one person to another. Suddenly uneasy, she looked at her brother-in-law, Preston, who was the host and almost within touching distance of the newly arrived guest. Why didn’t he welcome the man? But instead Preston had gone stiff, his face pale, staring at the stranger with the same sort of frozen horror one would eye a cobra coiled at one’s feet.

The tidal wave of silence had spread to include the entire huge room now, even the musicians on the raised dais falling silent. Under the glittering prisms of the chandeliers, people were turning, staring, shock rippling over their faces. A shiver of alarm went down Susan’s slender back; what was going on? Who was he? Something awful was going to happen. She sensed it, saw Preston tensing for a scene, and knew that she wasn’t going to let it happen. Whoever he was, he was a guest of the Blackstones, and no one was going to be rude to him, not even Preston Blackstone. Instinctively she moved, stepping into the middle of the scene, murmuring “Excuse me” to people as she slipped past them. All attention turned to her as if drawn by a magnet, for her movement was the only movement in the room. The stranger turned his gaze on her, too; he watched her, and he waited, those strange lodestone eyes narrowing as he examined the slim, graceful woman whose features were as pure and serene as a cameo, clothed in a fragile cream silk dress that swirled about her ankles as she walked. A three-strand pearl choker encircled her delicate throat; with her soft dark hair drawn up on top of her head and a few tendrils curling about her temples, she was a dream, a mirage, as illusive as angel’s breath. She looked as pure as a Victorian virgin, glowingly set apart from everyone else in the room, untouched and untouchable; and, to the man who watched her approach, an irresistible challenge.

Susan was unaware of the male intent that suddenly gleamed in the depths of his pale blue eyes. She was concerned only with avoiding the nastiness that had been brewing, something she didn’t understand but nevertheless wanted to prevent. If anyone had a score to settle with this man, they could do it at another time and in another place. She nodded a silent command to the band as she walked, and obediently the music began again, hesitantly at first, then gaining in volume. By that time, Susan had reached the man, and she held her hand out to him. “Hello,” she said, her low, musical voice carrying effortlessly to the people who listened openly, gaping at her. “I’m Susan Blackstone; won’t you dance with me?”

Her hand was taken in long, hard fingers, but there was no handshake. Instead, her hand was simply held, and a slightly rough thumb rubbed over the back of her fingers, feeling the softness, the slender bones. A level brow quirked upward over the blue eyes that were even more compelling at close range, for now she could see that the pale blue was ringed by deep midnight. Staring into those eyes, she forgot that they were simply standing there while he held her hand until he used his grip on her to pull her into his embrace as he swung her into a dance, causing the skirt of her dress to wrap about his long legs as they moved.

At first he simply held her, his strength moving her across the dance floor with such ease that her feet barely touched down. No one else was dancing, and Susan looked at several people, her level gaze issuing a quiet, gentle command that was obeyed without exception. Slowly they were joined by other dancers, and the man looked down at the woman he held in his arms.

Susan felt the strength in the hand on her lower back as the fingers slowly spread and exerted a gentle pressure that was nevertheless inexorable. She found herself closer to him, her breasts lightly brushing against his hard chest, and she suddenly felt overwarm, the heat from his body enveloping her. The simple, graceful steps he was using in the dance were abruptly difficult to follow, and she forced herself to concentrate to keep from stepping on his toes.

A quivering, spring-loaded tension began coiling in her stomach, and her hand trembled in his. He squeezed her fingers warmly and said into her ear, “Don’t be afraid; I won’t hurt you.”

His voice was a soft, deep rumble, as she had known it would be, and again that strange little shiver rippled through her. She lifted her head and found how close he had been when one of the soft curls at her temple became entangled in his beard, then slid free. She was almost dazed when she found herself looking directly at the chiseled strength of his lips, and she wondered with raw hunger if his mouth would be firm or soft, if he would taste as heady as he looked. With an inner groan, she jerked her thoughts away from the contemplation of how he would taste, what it would be like to kiss him. It was difficult to move her gaze higher, but she managed it, then wished that she hadn’t; staring into those unusual eyes was almost more than her composure could bear. Why was she reacting like a teenager? She was an adult, and even as a teenager she had been calm, nothing like the woman who now found herself quaking inside at a mere glance.

But she was seared by that glance, which surveyed, approved, asked, expected and…knew. He was one of those rare men who knew women, and were all the more dangerous for their knowledge. She responded to the danger alarm that all women possess by lifting her head with the innate dignity that characterized her every movement, and met that bold look. She said quietly, “What an odd thing to say,” and she was proud that her voice hadn’t trembled.

“Is it?” His voice was even softer than before, deeper, increasingly intimate. “Then you can’t know what I’m thinking.”

“No,” she said, and left it at that, not picking up on the innuendo that she knew was there.

“You will,” he promised, his tone nothing now but a low rasp that touched every nerve in her body. As he spoke, the arm about her waist tightened to pull her closer, not so close that she would have felt obliged to protest, but still she was suddenly, mutely aware of the rippling muscles in his thighs as his legs moved against hers. Her fingers clenched restlessly on his shoulder as she fought the abrupt urge to slide them inside his collar, to feel his bare skin and discover for herself if her fingers would be singed by the fire of him. Shocked at herself, she kept her eyes determinedly on the shoulder seam of his jacket and tried not to think of the strength she could feel in the hand that clasped hers, or in the one that pressed so lightly on the small of her back…lightly; but she had the sudden thought that if she tried to move away from him, that hand would prevent the action.

“Your shoulders look like satin,” he murmured roughly; before she could guess his intentions, his head dipped and his mouth, warm and hard, touched the soft, bare curve of her shoulder. A fine madness seized her and she quivered, her eyes drifting shut. God, he was making love to her on the dance floor, and she didn’t even know his name! But everything in her was responding to him, totally independent of her control; she couldn’t even control her thoughts, which kept leaping ahead to more dangerous subjects, wondering how his mouth would feel if it kept sliding down her body….

“Stop that,” she said, to herself as well as to him, but her voice was lacking any element of command; instead it was soft and shivery, the way she felt. Her skin felt as if it were on fire, but voluptuous shivers almost like a chill kept tickling her spine.

“Why?” he asked, his mouth making a sleek glissade from her shoulder to the sensitive hollow just before her ear.

“People are watching,” she murmured weakly, sagging against him as her body went limp from the flaming delight that went off like a rocket inside her. His arm tightened about her waist to hold her up, but the intensified sensations of being pressed to him only made her that much weaker. She drew a ragged breath; locked against him as she was, there was no mistaking the blatant male arousal of his body, and she lifted stunned, drowning eyes to him. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, the intense, laser quality of his gaze burning into her. There was no embarrassment or apology in his expression; he was a man, and reacted as such. Susan found, to her dazed astonishment, that the deeply feminine center of her didn’t want an apology. She wanted instead to drop her head to his shoulder and collapse into his lean, knowledgeable hands; but she was acutely aware not only of the people watching him, but also that if she followed her very feminine inclination, he was likely to respond by carrying her away like a pirate stealing a lady who had taken his fancy. No matter how he made her feel, this man was still a stranger to her.

“I don’t even know who you are,” she gasped quietly, her nails digging into his shoulder.

“Would knowing my name make any difference?” He blew gently on one of the tendrils that lay on her temple, watching the silky hair lift and fall. “But if it makes you feel better, sweetheart, we’re keeping it in the family.”

He was teasing, his teeth glistening whitely as he smiled, and Susan caught her breath, holding it for a moment before she could control her voice again. “I don’t understand,” she admitted, lifting her face to him.

“Take another deep breath like that, and it won’t matter if you understand or not,” he muttered, making her searingly aware of how her breasts had flattened against the hard planes of flesh beneath the white jacket. His diamond-faceted gaze dipped to the softness of her mouth as he explained, “I’m a Blackstone, too, though they probably don’t claim me.”

Susan stared at him in bewilderment. “But I don’t know you. Who are you?”

Again those animal-white teeth were revealed in a wicked grin that lifted the corners of his moustache. “Haven’t you heard any gossip? The term ‘black sheep’ was probably invented especially for me.”

Still she stared at him without comprehension, the graceful line of her throat vulnerable to his hungry scrutiny as she kept her head lifted the necessary inches to look at him. “But I don’t known of any black sheep. What’s your name?”

“Cord Blackstone,” he replied readily enough. “First cousin to Vance and Preston Blackstone; only son of Elias and Marjorie Blackstone; born November third, probably nine months to the day after Dad returned from his tour of duty in Europe, though I never could get Mother to admit it,” he finished, that wicked, fascinating grin flashing again like a beacon on a dark night. “But what about you, sweetheart? If you’re a Blackstone, you’re not a natural one. I’d remember any blood relative who looked like you. So, which of my esteemed cousins are you married to?”

“Vance,” she said, an echo of pain shadowing her delicate features for a moment. It was a credit to her strength of will that she was able to say evenly, “He’s dead, you know,” but nothing could mask the desolation that suddenly dimmed the luminous quality of her eyes.

The hard arms about her squeezed gently. “Yes, I’d heard. I’m sorry,” he said with rough simplicity. “Damn, what a waste. Vance was a good man.”

“Yes, he was.” There was nothing more that she could say, because she still hadn’t come to terms with the senseless, unlikely accident that had taken Vance’s life. Death had struck so swiftly, taken so much from her, that she had automatically protected herself by keeping people at a small but significant distance since then.

“What happened to him?” the silky voice asked, and she was a little stunned that he’d asked. Didn’t he even know how Vance had died?

“He was gored by a bull,” she finally replied. “In the thigh…a major artery was torn. He bled to death before we could get him to a hospital.” He had died in her arms, his life seeping away from him in a red tide, yet his face had been so peaceful. He had fixed his blue eyes on her and kept them there, as if he knew that he was dying and wanted his last sight on earth to be of her face. There had been a serene, heartbreaking smile on his lips as the brilliance of his gaze slowly dimmed and faded away forever….

Her fingers tightened on Cord Blackstone’s shoulder, digging in, and he held her closer. In an odd way, she felt some of the pain easing, as if he had buffered it with his big, hard body. Looking up, she saw a reflection in those pale eyes of his own harsh memories, and with a flash of intuition she realized that he was a man who had seen violent deaths before, who had held someone, a friend perhaps, in his arms while death approached and conquered. He understood what she had been through. Because he understood, the burden was abruptly easier to bear.

Susan had learned, over the years, how to continue with everyday things even in the face of crippling pain. Now she forced herself away from the horror of the memory and looked around, recalling herself to her duties. She noticed that far too many people were still standing around, staring at them and whispering. She caught the bandleader’s eye and gave another discreet nod, a signal for him to slide straight into another number. Then she let her eyes linger on her guests, singling them out in turn, and under the demand in her clear gaze the dance floor began to fill, the whispers to fade, and the party once more resumed its normal noise level. There wasn’t a guest there who would willingly offend her, and she knew it.

“That’s a neat trick,” he observed huskily, having followed it from beginning to end, and his voice reflected his appreciation. “Did they teach that in the finishing school you attended?”

A little smile played over her soft mouth before she glanced up at him, allowing him to divert her. “What makes you think I went to a finishing school?” she challenged.

His bold gaze slipped down the front of her gown to seek out and visually touch her rounded breasts. “Because you’re so obviously…finished. I can’t see anything that Mother Nature left undone.” His hard, warm fingers slid briefly down her back. “God, how soft your skin is,” he finished on a whisper.

A faint flush colored her cheeks at the husky note of intimacy that had entered his voice, though she was pleased in a deeply feminine way that he had noticed the texture of her skin. Oh, he was dangerous, all right, and the most dangerous thing about him was that he could make a woman take a risk even knowing how dangerous he was.

After a moment when she remained silent, he prodded, “Well? Am I right or not?”

“Almost,” she admitted, lifting her chin to smile at him. There was a soft, glowing quality to her smile that lit her face with gentle radiance, and his heavy-lidded eyes dropped even more in a signal that someone who knew him well would have recognized immediately. But Susan didn’t know him well, and she was unaware of how close she was skating to thin ice. “I attended Adderley’s in Virginia for four months, until my mother had a stroke and I left school to care for her.”

“No point in wasting any more money for them to gild the lily,” he drawled, letting his eyes drift over her serene features, then down her slender, graceful throat to linger once again, with open delight, on her fragrant, silky curves. Susan felt an unexpected heat flood her body at this man’s undisguised admiration; he looked as if he wanted to lean down and bury his face between her breasts, and she quivered with the surprising longing to have him do just that. He was more than dangerous; he was lethal!

She had to say something to break the heady spell that was enveloping her, and she used the most immediate topic of conversation. “When did you arrive?”

“Just this afternoon.” The curl of his lip told her that he knew what she was doing, but was allowing her to get away with it. Lazily he puckered his lips and blew again at the fine tendril of dark hair that entranced him as it lay on the fragile skin of her temple, where the delicate blue veining lay just under the translucent skin. Susan felt her entire body pulsate, the warm scent of his breath affecting her as strongly as if he’d lifted his hand and caressed her. Almost blindly she looked at him, compelling herself to concentrate on what he was saying, but the movement of those chiseled lips was even more enticing than the scent of him.

“I heard that Cousin Preston was having a party,” he was saying in a lazy drawl that had never lost its Southern music. “So I thought I’d honor old times by insulting him and crashing the shindig.”

Susan had to smile at the incongruity of describing this elegant affair as a “shindig,” especially when he himself was dressed as if he had just stepped out of a Monte Carlo casino…where he would probably be more at home than he was here. “Did you used to make a habit of crashing parties?” she murmured.

“If I thought it would annoy Preston, I did,” he replied, laughing a little at the memories. “Preston and I have always been on opposite sides of the fence,” he explained with a careless smile that told her how little the matter bothered him. “Vance was the only one I ever got along with, but then, he never seemed to care what kind of trouble I was in. Vance wasn’t one to worship at the altar of the Blackstone name.”

That was true; Vance had conformed on the surface to the demands made on him because his name was Blackstone, but Susan had always known that he did so with a secret twinkle in his eyes. Sometimes she didn’t think that her mother-in-law, Imogene, would ever forgive Vance for his mutiny against the Blackstone dynasty when he married Susan, though of course Imogene would never have been so crass as to admit it; a Blackstone didn’t indulge in shrewish behavior. Then Susan felt faintly ashamed of herself, because Vance’s family had treated her with respect.

Still, she felt a warm sense of comradeship with this man, because he had known Vance as she had, had realized his true nature, and she gave him a smile that sparked a glow in her own deep blue eyes. His arms tightened around her in an involuntary movement, as if he wanted to crush her against him.

“You’ve got the Blackstone coloring,” he muttered, staring at her. “Dark hair and blue eyes, but you’re so soft there’s no way in hell you could be a real Blackstone. There’s no hardness in you at all, is there?”

Puzzled, she stared back at him with a tiny frown puckering her brow. “What do you mean by hardness?”

“I don’t think you’d understand if I told you,” he replied cryptically, then added, “were you handpicked to be Vance’s wife?”

“No.” She smiled at the memory. “He picked me himself.”

He gave a silent whistle. “Imogene will never recover from the shock,” he said irreverently, and flashed that mocking grin at her again.

Despite herself, Susan felt the corners of her mouth tilting up in an answering smile. She was enjoying herself, talking to this dangerous, roguish man with the strangely compelling eyes, and she was surprised because she hadn’t really enjoyed herself in such a long time…since Vance’s death, in fact. There had been too many years and too many tears between her smiles, but suddenly things seemed different; she felt different inside herself. At first, she’d thought that she’d never recover from Vance’s death, but five years had passed, and now she realized that she was looking forward to life again. She was enjoying being held in this man’s strong arms and listening to his deep voice…and yes, she enjoyed the look in his eyes, enjoyed the sure feminine knowledge that he wanted her.

She didn’t want to examine her reaction to him; she felt as if she had been dead, too, and was only now coming alive, and she wanted to revel in the change, not analyze it.

She was in danger of drowning in sensation, and she recognized the inner weakness that was overtaking her, but felt helpless to resist it. He must have sensed, with a primal intuition that was as alarming as the aura of danger that surrounded him, that she was close to surrendering to the temptation to play with fire. He leaned down and nuzzled his mouth against the delicate shell of her ear, sending every nerve in her body into delirium. “Go outside with me,” he enticed, dipping his tongue into her ear and tracing the outer curve of it with electrifying precision.

Susan’s entire body reverberated with the shock of it, but his action cleared her mind of the clouds of desire that had been fogging it. Totally flustered, her cheeks suddenly pink, she stopped dead. “Mr. Blackstone!”

“Cord,” he corrected, laughing openly now. “After all, we’re at least kissing cousins, wouldn’t you say?”

She didn’t know what to say, and fortunately she was saved from forming an answer that probably wouldn’t have been coherent anyway, because Preston chose that moment to intervene. She had been vaguely aware, as she circled the room in Cord’s arms, that Preston had been watching every move his cousin made, but she hadn’t noticed him approaching. Putting his hand on Susan’s arm, he stared at his cousin with frosty blue eyes. “Has he said anything to upset you, Susan?”

Again she was thrown into a quandary. If she said yes, there would probably be a scene, and she was determined to avoid that. On the other hand, how could she say no, when it would so obviously be a lie? A spark of genius prompted her to reply with quiet dignity, “We were talking about Vance.”

“I see.” It was perfectly reasonable to Preston that, even after five years, Susan should be upset when speaking of her dead husband. He accepted her statement as an explanation instead of the red herring it was, and gave all of his attention to his cousin, who was standing there totally relaxed, a faintly bored smile on his lips.

“Mother is waiting in the library,” Preston said stiffly. “We assume you have some reason for afflicting us with your company.”

“I do.” Cord agreed easily with Preston’s insult, still smiling as he ignored the red flag being waved at him. He lifted one eyebrow. “Lead the way. Somehow, I don’t trust you at my back.”

Preston stiffened, and Susan forestalled the angry outburst she saw coming by placing her hand lightly on Cord’s arm and saying, “Let’s not keep Mrs. Blackstone waiting.”

As she had known he would, Preston shifted his attention to her. “There’s no reason for you to come along, Susan. You might as well stay here with the guests.”

“I’d like to have her there.” Cord had instantly contradicted his cousin, and in a manner that made Susan certain he’d spoken merely to irritate Preston. “She’s family, isn’t she? She might as well hear it all firsthand, rather than the watered-down and doctored version that she’d get from you and Imogene.”

For a moment Preston looked as if he would debate the point; then he turned abruptly and walked away. Preston was a Blackstone; he might want to punch Cord in the mouth, but he wouldn’t make a public scene. Cord following him at a slight distance, his hand dropping to rest lightly on Susan’s waist. He grinned down at her. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t get away from me.”

Susan was a grown woman, not a teenager. Moreover, she was a woman who for five years had managed large and varied business concerns with cool acumen; she was twenty-nine years old, and she told herself that she should long ago have passed out of the blushing stage. Yet this man, with the dashing air of a rake and those bold, challenging eyes, could make her blush with a mere glance. Excitement such as she had never felt before was racing through her, setting her heart pounding, and she actually felt giddy. She knew what love was like, and it wasn’t this. She had loved Vance, loved him so strongly that his death had nearly destroyed her, so she realized at once that this wasn’t the same emotion. This was primitive attraction, heady and feverish, and it was based entirely on sex. Vance Blackstone had been Love; Cord Blackstone meant only Lust.

But recognizing it for what it was didn’t lessen its impact as she walked sedately beside him, so vibrantly aware of the hand on her back that he might as well have been touching her naked body. She wasn’t the type for an affair. She was a throwback to the Victorian era, as Vance had once teased her by saying. She had been lovingly but strictly brought up, and she was the lady that her mother had meant her to be, from the top of her head down to her pink toes. Susan had never even thought of rebelling, because she was by nature exactly what she was: a lady. She had known love and would never settle for less than that, not even for the heady delights offered by the black sheep of the Blackstone family.

Just before they entered the library where Imogene waited, Cord leaned down to her. “If you won’t go outside with me, then I’ll take you home and we can neck on the front porch like teenagers.”

She flashed him an indignant glance that made him laugh softly to himself, but she was prevented from answering him because at that moment they passed through the door and she realized that he had perfectly timed his remark. He had a genius for throwing people off-balance, and he had done it again; despite herself, she felt the heat of intensified color in her face.

Imogene regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, her gray eyes sharpening for a fraction of a second as her gaze flickered from Susan to Cord, then back to Susan’s flushed face. Then she controlled her expression, and the gray eyes resumed their normal cool steadiness. “Susan, do you feel well? You look flushed.”

“I became a little warm during the dancing.” Susan was aware that once again she was throwing out a statement that would be regarded as an answer, but was in fact only a smokescreen. If she didn’t watch it, Cord Blackstone would turn her into a world-class liar before the night was out!

The tall man beside her directed her to a robin’s egg blue love seat and sprawled his graceful length beside her, earning himself a glare—which rolled right off of his toughened hide—from both Preston and Imogene. Smiling at his aunt, he drawled a greeting. “Hello, Aunt Imogene. How’s the family fortune?”

He was good at waving his own red flags, Susan noticed. Imogene settled back in her chair and coolly ignored the distraction. “Why have you come back?”

“Why shouldn’t I come back? This is my home, remember? I even own part of the land. I’ve been roaming around for quite a while now, and I’m ready to put down my roots. What better place for that than home? I thought I’d move into the cabin on Jubilee Creek.”

“That shack!” Preston’s voice was full of disdain.

Cord shrugged. “You can’t account for tastes. I prefer shacks to mausoleums.” He grinned, looking around himself at the formal furniture, the original oil paintings, the priceless vases and miniatures that adorned the shelves. Though called a library, the room actually contained few books, and all of them had been bought, Susan sometimes suspected, with an eye on the color of the dust jackets to make certain the books harmonized with the color scheme of the room.

Preston eyed his cousin with cold, silent hatred for a moment, an expanse of time which became heavy with resentment. “How much will it cost us?”

From the corner of her eye, Susan could see the lift of that mocking eyebrow. “Cost you for what?”

“For you to leave this part of the country again.”

Cord smiled, a particularly wolfish smile that should have warned Preston. “You don’t have enough money, Cousin.”

Imogene lifted her hand, forestalling Preston’s heated reply. She had a cooler head and was better at negotiating than her son was. “Don’t be foolish…or hasty,” she counseled. “You do realize that we’re prepared to offer you a substantial sum in exchange for your absence?”

“Not interested,” he said lazily, still smiling.

“But a man with your…lifestyle must have debts that need settling. Then there’s the fact that I have many friends who owe me for favors, and who could be counted on to make your stay unpleasant, at the least.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Aunt Imogene.” Cord was utterly relaxed, his long legs stretched out before him. “The first surprise in store for you is that I don’t need the money. The second is that if any of your ‘friends’ decide to help you by making things difficult for me, I have friends of my own who I can call on, and believe me, my friends make yours look like angels.”

Imogene sniffed. “I’m sure they do, considering.”

For the first time Susan felt compelled to intervene. Fighting upset her; she was quiet and naturally peaceful, but with an inner strength that allowed her to throw herself into the breach. Her gentle voice immediately drew everyone’s attention, though it was to her mother-in-law that she spoke. “Imogene, look at him; look at his clothes.” She waved her slender hand to indicate the man lounging beside her. “He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t need any money. And I think that when he mentions his friends, he isn’t talking about back-alley buddies.”

Cord regarded her with open, if somewhat mocking, admiration. “At last, a Blackstone with perception, though of course you weren’t born to the name, so maybe that explains it. She’s right, Imogene, though I’m sure you don’t like hearing it. I don’t need the Blackstone money because I have money of my own. I plan to live in the cabin because I like my privacy, not because I can’t afford any better. Now, I suggest that we manage to control our differences, because I intend to stay here. If you want to air the family dirty laundry, then go ahead. It won’t bother me; you’ll be the only one to suffer from that.”

Imogene gave a curious little sigh. “You’ve always been difficult, Cord, even when you were a child. My objection to you is based on your past actions, not on you personally. You’ve dragged your family through enough mud to last for four lifetimes, and I find that hard to forgive, and I find it equally as hard to trust you to behave with some degree of civility.”

“It’s been a long time,” he said obliquely. “I’ve spent a lot of time in Europe, and too long in South America; it makes a man appreciate his home.”

“Does it? I wonder. Forgive me if I suspect an ulterior motive, but then, your past gives me little choice. Very well, we’ll call a truce…for the time being.”

“A truce.” He winked at her, and to Susan’s surprise, Imogene blushed. So he had that effect on every female! But he was a fool if he believed that Imogene would go along with a truce. She might appear to give in, but that was all it was: appearance. Imogene never gave in; she merely changed tactics. If she couldn’t bribe or threaten him, then she would try other measures, though for the moment Susan couldn’t think of anything else that could be brought to bear on the man.

He was rising to his feet, his hand under Susan’s elbow, urging her up also. “You’ve been away from your guests long enough,” he told Imogene politely. “I give you my solemn promise that I won’t cause any scandals tonight, so relax and enjoy yourself.” Pulling Susan along with him like a puppy, he crossed the floor to Imogene and bent down to kiss his aunt. Imogene sat perfectly still under the touch of his lips, though her color rose even higher. Then he straightened, his eyes dancing. “Come along, Susan,” he commanded.

“Just a moment,” Preston intervened, stepping before them. Imogene might have called a truce, but Preston hadn’t. “We’ve agreed to no open hostilities; we haven’t agreed to associate with you. Susan isn’t going anywhere with you.”

“Oh? I think that’s up to the lady. Susan?” Cord turned to her, making his wishes known by the curl of his fingers on her arm.

Susan hesitated. She wanted to go with Cord. She wanted to laugh with him, to see the wicked twinkle in his eyes, feel the magic of being held in his arms. But she couldn’t trust him, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t trust herself. Because she wanted so badly to go with him, she had to deny him. Slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “No. I think it would be better if I didn’t go with you.”

His blue eyes narrowed, and suddenly they were no longer laughing, but wore the sheen of anger. He dropped his hand from her arm. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said coldly, and left her without another word.

The silence in the library was total, the three occupants motionless. Then Imogene sighed again. “Thank heavens you didn’t go with him, dear. He’s charming, I know, but beneath all of that charm, he hates this entire family. He’ll do anything, anything, he can to harm us. You don’t know him, but it’s in your best interest if you avoid him.” Having delivered her graceful warning, Imogene shrugged. “Ah, well, I suppose we’ll have to suffer through this until he gets bored and drifts off to hunt other amusements. He was right about one thing, the wretch; I do have to get back to my guests.” She rose and left the room, her mist-gray gown swaying elegantly about her feet as she walked. Imogene was still a beautiful woman; she hardly looked old enough to be the mother of the man who stood beside Susan. Imogene didn’t age; she endured.

After a moment, Preston took Susan’s hand, his ingrained sense of courtesy taking control of him again. His confrontation with his cousin had been the only occasion when Susan could remember seeing Preston be anything but polite, even when he was disagreeing with someone. “Let’s relax for a moment before we rejoin them. Would you like a drink?” he suggested.

“No, thank you.” Susan allowed him to seat her on the love seat again, and she watched as he poured himself a neat whiskey and sat down beside her, a small frown puckering his brow as he regarded the glass in his hand. Something was on his mind; she knew his mannerisms as well as she knew her own. She waited, not pushing him. She and Preston had become close since Vance’s death, and she felt strongly affectionate toward him. He looked so much like Vance, so much like all the Blackstones, with his dark hair and blue eyes and lopsided smile. Preston lacked Vance’s sense of humor, but he was a formidable opponent in business. He was stubborn; slower than Vance to react, but more determined when he did.

“You’re a lovely woman, Susan,” he said abruptly.

Startled, she stared at him. She knew she looked good tonight; she had debated over wearing the cream silk dress, for her tastes since Vance’s death had been somber, but she had remembered that the medieval color of mourning had been white, not black, and only she knew when she put on the white dress that she did so with a small but poignant remnant of grief. She had dressed for Vance tonight, wearing the pearls that he had given her, spraying herself with his favorite perfume. But for a few mad moments she had gloried in the knowledge that she looked good, not for Vance’s sake, but because of the admiration she had seen in another pair of eyes, strange lodestone eyes. What would have happened if she had gone with Cord Blackstone tonight, instead of playing it safe?

Preston’s eyes softened as he looked at her. “You’re no match for him. If you let him, he’ll use you to hurt us; then he’ll leave you on the trash pile and walk away without looking back. Stay away from him; he’s poison.”

Susan regarded him steadily. “Preston, I’m a woman, not a child; I’m capable of making my own decisions. I can see why you wouldn’t like your cousin, since he’s so totally different from you. But he hasn’t done anything to harm me, and I won’t snub him.”

He gave a rueful smile at her firm, reasonable tone. “I’ve heard that voice in enough board meetings over the past five years to know you’ve dug in your heels and won’t budge without a good reason. But you don’t know what he’s like. You’re a lady; you’ve never been exposed to the sort of things that are commonplace to him. He’s lived the life of an alley cat, not because he had no choice, no way out, but because he preferred that type of life. He broke his mother’s heart, making her so ashamed of him that he wasn’t welcome in her home.”

“Exactly what did he do that was so terrible?” Deliberately, she kept her tone light, not wanting Preston to see how deeply she was interested in the answer, how deeply she was disturbed by Cord Blackstone.

“What didn’t he do?” Sarcasm edged Preston’s answer. “Fights, drinking, women, gambling…but the final straw was the scandal when he was caught with Grant Keller’s wife.”

Susan choked. Grant Keller was dignity personified, and so was his wife. Preston looked at her and couldn’t prevent a grin. “Not this Mrs. Keller; the former Mrs. Keller was entirely different. She was thirty-six, and Cord was twenty-one when they left town together.”

“That was a long time ago,” Susan pointed out.

“Fourteen years, but people have long memories. I saw Grant Keller’s face when he recognized Cord tonight, and he looked murderous.”

Susan was certain there was more to the story, but she was reluctant to pry any deeper. The old scandal in no way explained Preston’s very personal hatred for Cord. For right now, though, she was suddenly very tired and didn’t want to pursue the subject. All the excitement that had lit her up while she was dancing with Cord had faded. Rising, she smoothed her skirt. “Will you take me home? I’m exhausted.”

“Of course,” he said immediately, as she had known he would. Preston was entirely predictable, always solicitous of her. At times, the cushion of gallantry that protected her gave her a warm sense of security, but at other times she felt restricted. Tonight, the feeling of restriction deepened until she felt as if she were being smothered. She wanted to breathe freely, to be unobserved.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive to her home, and soon she was blessedly alone, sitting on the dark front porch in the wooden porch swing, listening to the music of a Southern night. She had waited until Preston left before she came out to sit in the darkness, her right foot gently pushing her back and forth to the accompanying squeak of the chains that held the swing. A light breeze rustled through the trees and kissed her face, and she closed her eyes. As she often did, she tried to summon up Vance’s face, to reassure herself with the mental picture of his violet-blue eyes and lopsided grin, but to her alarm, the face that formed wasn’t his. Instead she saw pale blue eyes above the short black beard of a desperado; they were the reckless eyes of a man who dared anything. A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the touch of his warm mouth on her shoulder, and her skin tingled as if his lips were still pressed there.

Thank heavens she had had the good sense to ask Preston to bring her home instead of going with that man as he had asked. Preston was at least safe, and Cord Blackstone had probably never heard the word.