Beckett's Convenient Bride Page 10

  “Isn’t that right, Katherine?” her grandmother asked, and she smiled and nodded like one of those silly bobble dolls.

  Get it together, she told herself sternly.

  Of course, she told herself that on the average of twice a day. And so far, she’d managed to do just that, but recent events had shattered any gains she might have made toward maintaining a quiet, orderly lifestyle.

  “You remember that movie, don’t you, Katherine? I think you must have been about twelve at the time. I remember telling your mother that you were too young to see it.”

  She hadn’t a clue which movie her grandmother was talking about. She had never been too young. Sometimes she thought she’d been born old. But she smiled and nodded again. Another five minutes and her duty would be done for the next six months. If she failed to show up for six years, her absence probably wouldn’t even be noticed, but her conscience would nag her. Her conscience was like a five-pound anchor—not big enough to do much good, just big enough to be a drag.

  “I got it at Bergdorf’s for half the price.” The voices wafted around her while she counted down the seconds before she could politely make her escape. Come on, Carson, sweep me off my feet and get me out of here!

  “Oh, this? Antoine said it was the last thing he designed before he died, can you imagine? I simply had to have it, of course.” The speaker wore a black dress no different from two thirds of the women present. It amused Kit to see how her grandmother’s friends deliberately avoided commenting on what Kit had chosen to wear.

  Why do you keep on doing it? her five-pound anchor of a conscience demanded.

  Because it drives my grandfather up a wall, she told herself with grim satisfaction.

  She felt sorry for her grandmother, she honestly did, but then, she was what the shrinks called an enabler. All those years she had stood silently by while the two Dixon men, father and son, had taunted poor Elizabeth Chandler, whose only faults were a tendency toward addictive behavior and rotten taste in husbands. Taunted her into alcoholism, which had led—at least, in Kit’s estimation—to an indiscreet affair that had given them even more ammunition.

  And all the while, their precious, perfect son had been so coldly abusive to both his wife and his daughter that even now Kit still woke up occasionally in the middle of the night, desperately seeking light and air. Being locked in a closet for hours on end left a lasting impression. Once she’d been confined for more than twenty-four hours when her father had been delayed in court and her mother had been in an alcoholic stupor.

  Now Kit shifted her weight to the other foot. Mercy, these shoes ought to be against the law! She took a deep breath, looking around the familiar room in the bayside mansion some three-quarters of a mile from where she had grown up. It all came down to money. Money and position. Grandmother Dixon had had both; grandfather Dixon had had neither. Once they’d been married, it had all become his.

  Money had strings, Kit reminded herself. Which was why she continued to flaunt her independence before the old man she had learned to despise before she’d even learned to ride her first two-wheeler. If he thought he could dangle her inheritance before her now and make her jump to his tune, he was sadly mistaken. She had a roof over her head—she had clothes to wear—she had books on her shelf that she had written herself, and another one in the works. And in another few weeks she might even have a royalty check in the mail.

  I don’t need you, she whispered silently, catching sight of her grandfather as he stood, his face flushed, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, regaling an audience of neophyte lawyers with what a great, history-making man he was.

  You’re small, grandfather. Really, really small. Carson Beckett, a man I’ve known only two days, is twice the man you’ll ever be.

  Had it been only two days? Funny, she thought, in some ways it seemed as if she’d known him forever. The way her eyes kept constantly searching the crowded room, seeking him out, as if there were some invisible wire connecting them.

  “I bought your little booklet, Katherine,” said another friend of her grandmother, who had just joined the small group. “Naturally, I didn’t read it, but I thought seeing that Flavia and I are close friends, I could at least do that much to support her only granddaughter.”

  Her little booklet. Kit wondered if the remark was intended to sound as condescending as it did. Giving the woman the benefit of doubt, she said, “Thank you, Mrs. Barnes. I appreciate that.”

  That booklet, as you call it, was nominated for an award. It didn’t get it, but it was mentioned in Publishers Weekly.

  From some ten feet away, where he’d been trapped by an elderly bow-tied gentleman, Carson caught her eye and nodded toward the front door. The loquacious old gent remarked on the weather, offering the opinion that March would go out like a lamb. Edging away, Carson declined to comment on a certain candidate running for attorney general, explaining that he was from South Carolina. Then he laughed dutifully at the old saw about North Carolina being a vale of humility between two mountains of conceit—Virginia and his home state.

  Once the old guy moved on, Carson considered his options. He could join Kit and meet her fawning gentleman friend, or he could wait for her at the front door.

  He decided on the latter option, which took him close to the buffet where an array of finger food surrounded a five-tier wedding cake, the lower tier sporting enough candles to set off a sprinkler system. The sight of all that food reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since the weed sandwich Kit had put together for lunch—hadn’t even finished that, if he remembered correctly. On impulse, he picked up two plates and two forks and was just reaching for something brown wrapped in bacon when he heard his name called.

  He turned to see Kit waving him over.

  Yours to command, lady, he thought, replacing the plates and silverware. Funny thing—it would never have occurred to him to place her in a setting like this, yet she seemed perfectly at home here, godawful gorgeous dress and all.

  Resigned to waiting at least five more minutes before he could politely make a break for it, he edged past another clump of partygoers and wondered what the devil was he doing here anyway—in the bosom, as it were, of her family. A Beckett and Chandler rematch?

  No way.

  He tried to regain his objectivity, knowing even as he did that it was a lost cause. Being objective around a woman like Kit Dixon was about like trying to ignore a swarm of ground bees.

  And then he was there beside her, inhaling her unique scent among the Chanel and Polo and chicken livers.

  Kit grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “Grandmother, this is Carson Beckett, an—an old friend.” The look she shot him was pleading, the smile brittle and just a bit desperate. “Car, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Dixon, and this is Randolph Hart,” the Ralph Fiennes look-alike. “Randolph is a friend of my grandfather’s.”

  Carson shook hands with the man who was probably a year or two older, but with considerably less rough mileage on him.

  “Beckett.” Hart nodded.

  The woman was older than he’d first thought, but extremely well preserved. Kit’s grandmother favored him with a cool smile that never reached her eyes. For the next few minutes they engaged in polite, meaningless conversation. From habit, Carson summed up the other man as professional, successful, probably heterosexual. His posture indicated a certain proprietary interest in Kit, which she didn’t seem to reciprocate.

  Hmm…. A young lawyer and a judge’s granddaughter?

  Bingo, he thought a few minutes later as the old judge joined them. “I see you met Hart, here. Just been made a senior partner, d’he tell you that? Flavia, the Sawyers were asking about you, why don’t you go over and talk to them.” It was a command, not a request.

  Flavia Dixon murmured something polite and left, the same fixed smile on her masklike face.

  The judge turned then to Carson. “Randolph tell you about the party his folks are throwing to celebrate? He’ll be taking m
y granddaughter, of course. Kit, see that you wear something more suitable, y’hear? Might make it a double celebration, right, son?”

  The tone was jovial; the expression was not. The judge’s cold gray eyes—Kit’s eyes, but totally devoid of her warmth and sparkle—lingered on the flamboyant dress before moving to her hair, which had started out the evening gathered at the back of her neck by a big gold clasp. “Do something about that hair, too, while you’re at it. Cut it off. Your grandmother can tell you where to go. God knows she spends enough of my money on herself.”

  “Grandfather, I’m afraid—” Kit’s hand gripped Carson’s arm. She edged closer, and he acted on impulse.

  “What Kit’s trying to say, sir, is she might not be available.”

  His flabby cheeks suddenly reddening, the judge glared at him, then turned to Kit. “What d’you mean, not available? You don’t even know the date yet, so don’t play your silly little games with me, girl.”

  Kit opened her mouth to speak, but Carson, covering her cold fingers with his own, took over. He might not know what was going on here, but he damned sure knew intimidation when he heard it. “What Kit means, sir, is that she’s going home with me for a visit. We’re not sure how long it will last, but my mother hasn’t been well and she enjoys company. Then there’s Lance and Liza, they live close by. You remember Kit’s cousin Liza, don’t you?”

  He was damned sure the bastard didn’t.

  The old judge started to bluster, but cut it off. After shooting a meaningful look at his protégé, he wheeled about and stalked off.

  “You ready?” Carson asked, wanting to get her the hell away before anyone else tried to jerk her strings.

  “Give me one minute.”

  While Kit made her way across the room to speak to her grandmother, Carson headed for the buffet again. Bypassing the stack of gold-rimmed china plates, he filched a couple of napkins and loaded them with finger food. The napkins were linen, which made it petty thievery, but what the hell. If food could help wipe away that stricken look on Kit’s face, then he’d damn well feed her until she couldn’t fit into that dress of hers.

  After that, he would…

  Don’t go there, man. Don’t even go there.

  Eight

  “I knew it would be bad,” Kit said as soon as they were in the car, headed out the boxwood-lined circular driveway. “It always is, but—” She shook her head, then pressed two fingers to the pucker line between her eyebrows. “Why can’t he ever learn? He’s not stupid—far from it. It’s the control thing, you know. He’s just like my father was. It’s always about control.”

  He wanted to ask about her parents, but knowing Kit, anything of importance would emerge soon enough if he let her ramble. He had learned through experience which tactics worked best on which personality types, even figuring in the fear factor. Which wasn’t even a factor in this case. Trouble was, Kit wasn’t a type, she was simply Kit, who didn’t owe him any answers.

  For several minutes the only sound was the whine of high-performance radials on damp pavement. Evidently there’d been a shower earlier. He thought about playing a CD as quiet, disarming background noise, but decided against it. She’d talk when she felt like talking, and if she didn’t…

  There was no law that said she had to talk to him.

  “You cold?” he asked when the silence had stretched over several miles. Not that he was uncomfortable with silence, but this particular silence was too full of things that needed saying. On both sides.

  When she didn’t reply, he glanced over at her. She was shivering. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since they’d set out, probably when the showers passed through. Inside the car it was warm enough, though.

  She took a deep breath and straightened up. “Cold? No, I’m fine. You do know what he’s doing, don’t you?”

  It took him a minute to get up to speed. He ventured a guess. “Your grandfather?”

  “He’s matchmaking,” she said grimly. “I ask you, does my grandfather strike you as the sentimental type?”

  “Not particularly.” A car passed on a long curve. Other than that, there was practically no traffic. “You think he’s trying to pair you up with whatsisname? Hart?”

  “More like engineering a merger, with him as the controlling partner,” she responded bitterly. “He’s not particularly subtle, is he?”

  About as subtle as a sledgehammer. Carson watched the dark, flat countryside roll past and reduced his speed a few miles. “Wanna share?” he teased after several more minutes passed in silence. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine?”

  Not that there was much to tell on his part. He had a feeling that what little there was was about to slip away, but that was another issue.

  “Randolph—nobody’s allowed to call him Randy since he was made a partner in the firm—anyway, his father and my father were friends. Mr. Hart was on the same plane my parents were on when it crashed. You probably remember—it made headlines long enough a few years back. There was this big investigation and all sorts of rumors about a bomb or a missile. One theory was that there was this mob boss who was about to go on trial. My father was the prosecuting attorney, and some people thought they blew up the plane he was on to send a message.”

  She shivered again, and Carson nudged the heat up a notch. It was either that or pull over and offer to share his body heat. Which just might present a distraction neither of them needed at this point.

  After another long silence, she picked up the conversation where she’d left it. “He thought he could take over after my father died, you know. Old Cast Iron, I mean. My grandfather.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. A judge taking over his son’s law practice?

  “Not the firm—me.” She answered the unvoiced question. “He thought he could step in and take over my life, like I was one of his chess pieces. I was supposed to start by going to this fancy junior college—not for an education, you understand, but as sort of a holding tank until he figured out what he wanted to do with me next. Now, of course, he’s got it all figured out, only I’m getting too old and he’s royally ticked off.”

  “Too old for what?”

  “It has to do with my father’s will. Oh, let’s not get into that, it’s too depressing.”

  “Right.” He waited to see if any more information would be forthcoming.

  “Well.” She adjusted her shoulder strap and said something about satin being so slippery. “I’ve never worn it before—at least not on the outside. I hate waste, though. I bought it on sale for an autograph session when my first book came out, but I ended up wearing clam-diggers and a Hawaiian print shirt. It was at Nags Head, you know. Good thing, too. I’d probably have slid right out of my chair. It was one of those folding metal ones, but they had a lovely flower arrangement with lollipops and daisies.”

  Evidently, the topic of wills and meddling grandfathers was closed. Carson shuffled the information into proper sequence and filled in a few gaps. He was getting used to her mode of expression, which was random, to put it mildly. Might be interesting to take a look at one of her books before he left, just to see if she rambled through a story the same way she rambled through everything else.

  “Is that wind making the car rock like that? No wonder I’m freezing.”

  The breeze had picked up, but it wasn’t particularly cold. “You’re welcome to my jacket. Shirt, too, if you need it, but I’m not going to offer to change clothes with you. I have to tell you, purple’s not my best color.”

  She laughed, which might have been the object of the whole inane exchange. “It’s not purple, it’s fuchsia.” Then she sighed. “What a mess. Carson, I’m sorry as I can be I dragged you into it, but I really do appreciate your being there. I mean everything that’s happened lately, not just the party. If I’d gone there alone tonight, I’d have walked out in a fit of temper and probably ended up getting arrested for speeding.”

  In the Ladybug? He doubted if she’d have been able to
meet the minimum speed limit, but was tactful enough not to say so.

  “And then, of course, someone would notify grandfather and he’d show up to bail me out and then he’d find out about the rest of my mess and insist that I go back home with him so he could ruin the rest of my life.”

  Her mess. That was one way of putting it. “I doubt if you’d be jailed. I don’t think the laws are that different in North Carolina, but don’t let that stop you if you’re on a roll.”

  She sliced off a quick, sidelong grin that touched a place that hadn’t been touched in a long, long time—if ever. “Okay, so I exaggerate a little. It’s my creative side. I like to make a short story long and a dull story fancy.”

  “Fancy?”

  She shrugged again. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed that about her—that she used her whole body and not just her hands when she talked.

  “Actually, except for a few minor details, I have my life pretty much under control.”

  “Right. Minor details like murder.” Maybe he should mention that a bit of grandfatherly interest at this point might not be the worst thing that could happen to her. It was not only her creative imagination that was making her jumpy about this murder business. Like it or not, she was a player.

  She shivered again. She’d refused his coat the first time he’d offered it. This time he didn’t offer. Seeing a turnoff just ahead, he pulled over and shut off the engine. She looked startled, then wary. “Is someone tailing us?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the dark highway.

  Carson eased his arms from the sleeves of his jacket. “I’m getting hot—thought you might have changed your mind about wearing it.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he reached over and draped it around her shoulders, then tugged her forward and smoothed it down over her back. “There, that ought to do it,” he muttered, jerking his hands away before they could get into trouble. Ever since he’d seen her preening in front of her bedroom mirror, holding that dress up in front of her, he’d been conscious of a growing sexual awareness. Suddenly, tension was snapping in the air like a live wire. Was he the only one affected? Once or twice tonight he’d caught her looking at him in a way that…