Читать книгу The Seven Year Secret - Roz Fox Denny - Страница 9

ON AN EVEN KEEL AGAIN, Connor found the stairs. He clattered down the first flight in pursuit of Claire. He couldn’t get mad at her. Poor Claire was caught in a mess of his making. His and Mallory’s. Lord knew his feelings for Mallory still ran hot and cold. One minute old memories—good memories—let him go soft on her. Then he’d think about her deception, and he’d be as angry as a man could be.

Claire was the innocent here. Her only fault lay in falling for a guy who had a shady past she knew nothing about. Hell, he hadn’t known about it himself.

As he burst from the stairwell into the lobby, Connor saw Claire pacing near an occupied public phone. Relieved to see her, he loped across the room, still holding the angel bear.

Slowed by the tense set of her shoulders, he automatically gentled his tone. “Claire?”

“That man,” she burst out. “The senator’s driver. He’s waiting for us outside. I know they took our bags, but how can you put me in a position of staying in a house with your former mistress?”

“Mistress? Mallory wasn’t my…” Connor’s brows dived together. “No, Claire—our relationship wasn’t like that.”

“Then how was it? You admit you two lived together.” Her lower lip protruded. “What should I think, Connor? Am I supposed to just accept these little surprises?”

“Listen…Mallory and I were teenage friends who grew closer during a horrible time in my life. She helped pull me through. Looking back, I think we saw each other differently. Oh, hell, I’m not doing a good job of explaining, am I?”

“Maybe I should go home to Miami now and let you work this out.”

Heaving the stuffed toy into a vacant lobby chair, Connor took Claire’s arm and herded her toward the revolving door. “Please stay. You heard what Dr. Dahl said about how huge the Forrest home is. Let’s go there, at least accept their hospitality long enough to freshen up. We’ll probably have the house to ourselves for a few hours. Once we’re rested, it’ll be easier to discuss things rationally.”

“And what will your Mallory be doing throughout our rational discussion?” Claire sniped, balking at the door.

“She’s not my Mallory. Anyway, Dr. Dahl said she works. Here at the hospital.” Glancing at his watch, Connor saw that it was five, normally quitting time. “Even if she’s finished for the day, I imagine she’d go to her own home rather than her dad’s.”

Seemingly mollified by that prospect, Claire shook off Connor’s hand and exited the hospital under her own steam. He stopped a passing nurse and asked her to donate the angel bear to one of the children’s play areas.

Outside, Brad Forrest’s driver bounded from the limousine to whip open the back door. “The senator asked me to let you know he has a cocktail party that started at four-thirty. I’ll pick him up at seven, in time for dinner at eight. Meanwhile, Marta—she runs the house—will make you comfortable.”

“Thank you. And your name is?” Connor asked politely before he slid in next to Claire.

“Davis, sir. I’ve been with the senator since he was first elected.”

“Well, Davis. Thanks for waiting. It’s been a tough trip for us, but you probably know the situation.”

“Yes, sir,” the old man murmured, gently closing Connor’s door.

“The ride across town ought to be relatively short,” Connor informed Claire. Then, because the sliding window between them and Davis remained ajar, he didn’t bring up anything personal. Instead, he drew Claire’s attention to remembered landmarks as they drove past. “Look, there’s the old capitol. Over there’s the new one. Clyde’s is a locally famous bar. By day,” he said, grinning, “state legislators conduct high-level meetings there. After hours, college students swarm the place.”

He rattled on with such fondness for the sights that Claire finally interrupted. “You miss Tallahassee, don’t you.”

Connor, who still had his nose pressed to the side window, turned to stare at her. “I haven’t thought much about it. The culture’s more Old South here than in Miami. I like that. Remember, I was born and raised here. But there are good memories, and bad.” A muscle in his jaw jumped as he studied the landscape over her shoulder. “Ah—there’s the cemetery where my mother is buried.”

“Really?” Claire spun to see it.

“Yes. I’d like to bring flowers, maybe tomorrow. It’s been a while since I’ve visited. Too long.” He craned his neck to keep the wrought-iron fence in view.

“Mrs. Forrest’s buried there, too.” Davis glanced at Connor in the rearview mirror. “The senator takes white roses by her grave every Monday, rain or shine. White roses were the missus’s favorite.”

“Then you’ll be able to direct me to a florist. I’m afraid that when I lived here before, I never had money for extras—like flowers.”

Claire gave a little snort. “Only hand-blown glass elephants. And that’s a pretty ritzy cemetery.”

“Meaning what? There’s a difference in cemeteries?”

From Claire’s dry expression, Connor figured there must be. “I…uh, didn’t purchase the plot.” He paled under his robust tan. “I guess I was too out of it at the time to notice. Mallory took charge. She handled the entire funeral.”

“She was how old? Sixteen? Obviously her parents made the arrangements.”

“No. I’m absolutely sure she got no help from them. She did it all by herself.”

“I forgot. St. Mallory.”

Connor gnawed on his upper lip, deciding silence was the safest bet. Which was okay, because Davis slowed and turned into a driveway facing a massive set of iron gates. One gate swung open when he pressed a button under the dash.

Forrest House, an antebellum, white-columned structure, commanded the entire top of a grassy knoll. Stately magnolias and spreading live oaks flanked the residence. The postcard picture it presented was grand enough to draw a gasp from Claire.

“Intimidating, isn’t it?” Connor muttered.

“Impressive,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, my, is that a pool near those cabanas off to the left? Um…maybe we shouldn’t be too hasty about finding another place, Connor. This is like a five-star resort.”

“What about privacy?” Connor twisted in his seat, realizing belatedly that Davis had circled a bronze sculpture of towering pine trees and stopped at the bottom of marble steps leading to an even more imposing set of carved wooden doors. Troublesome memories assailed him. Connor helped Claire out of the car this time, and Davis drove on to a detached seven-car garage situated at the end of the cobbled terrace.

“Place looks deserted,” Connor observed, trailing Claire up the broad steps.

“Just ring the bell,” she said, still attempting to take in all the sights around the parklike grounds. “Surely the senator’s staff is home. Davis said the housekeeper would take care of us. I can’t recall her name. Do you remember?”

Connor shook his head as he pressed the bell. Suddenly, he wished he’d heeded Claire’s first preference and found another place to stay.

INSIDE HER FATHER’S HOUSE, Mallory, who’d entered moments before, having indulged in a rare after-work swim, heard the door chimes. “I can tell you’re busy cooking something delicious, Marta, judging by that wonderful smell. I’ll get the door. Are you or Dad expecting anyone?” she called into the kitchen, her voice muffled as she toweled her wet hair.

Marta responded from the depths of the commercial-size kitchen. But her words didn’t penetrate the fleecy towel.

Concerned more with the water tracks she was leaving on the black marble entry floor than with who might be calling on her dad, Mallory hurriedly yanked open the heavy door, expecting at most to direct a deliveryman elsewhere.

It’d be impossible to judge who was more shocked by her sudden appearance in a skimpy bikini—Mallory, Connor or Claire, whose breath escaped audibly. “I thought you said she had her own place,” Claire muttered in an accusing voice.

“Mallory?” Connor sounded incredulous. And Mallory’s hands shook so hard, she had trouble dragging the wet towel off her head. She made a fumbled attempt to cover the greater expanse of flesh left open to the scrutiny of her unwelcome guests.