Нора Робертс - Megan’s Mate

He wanted to think that one through. After all, Megan had barely met the man. Then again, he remembered, he'd fallen for Amanda in little more time than it took her to snap his head off. If he'd been able to choose a man for his sister, it might have been someone very much like Nathaniel Fury.

“Have you told her that?” Sloan asked, his tone considerably less belligerent.

“Go to hell.”

“Haven't,” he decided, and braced his booted foot on his knee. “Does she feel the same way about you?”

“She will.” Nathaniel set his teeth. “She needs time to work it out, that's all.”

“Is that what she said?”

“That's what I say.” Nathaniel ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Look, O'Riley, either mind your own damn business or take a punch at me. I've had enough.”

Sloan's smile spread slow and easy. “Crazy about her, aren't you?” Nathaniel merely grunted and started out to sea.

“What about Kevin?” Sloan studied Nathaniel's profile as he probed. “Some might have a problem taking on another man's son.”

“Kevin's Megan's son.” His eyes flashed to Sloan's, burned. “He'll be mine.”

Sloan waited a moment until he was sure. “So, you're going to take on the whole package.”

“That's right.” Nathaniel pulled out a cigar, lit it. “You got a problem with that?”

“Can't say as I do.” Sloan grinned and accepted the cigar Nathaniel belatedly offered him. “You might, though. My sister's a damn stubborn woman. But seeing as you're almost a member of the family, I'll be glad to offer any help.”

A smile finally twitched at Nathaniel's mouth. “Thanks, but I'd like to handle it on my own.”

“Suit yourself.” Sloan settled back to enjoy the ride.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

Megan had no more than stepped in the door of The Towers when she found herself surrounded by concern.

“I'm fine, really.” Her protests hadn't prevented the Calhouns from herding her into the family kitchen and plying her with tea and sympathy. “This has gotten blown out of proportion.”

“When somebody messes with one of us,” C.C. corrected, “they mess with all of us.”

She glanced outside, where the children were playing happily in the yard. “I appreciate it. Really. But I don't think there's anything more to worry about.”

“There won't be.” Colleen stepped into the room, her gaze scanning each face in turn. “What are you all doing in here, smothering the girl? Get out.”

“Aunt Colleen...” Coco began.

“Out, I said, all of you. You, go back to your kitchen and flirt with that big Dutchman you've got sneaking into your room at night.”

“Why, I—”

“Go. And you.” Now her cane gestured threateningly at Amanda. “You've got a hotel to run, don't you? Go weed some flowers,” she ordered Suzanna. “And you go tinker with an engine.” She flicked her gaze from C.C. to Lilah.

“Tougher with me, isn't it, Auntie?” Lilah said lazily. “Take a nap,” Colleen snapped.

“Got me,” Lilah said with a sigh. “Come on, ladies, we've been dismissed.”

Satisfied when the door swung shut behind them, Colleen sat heavily at the table. “Get me some of that tea,” she ordered Megan. “See that it's hot.”

Though she moved to obey, Megan wasn't cowed. “Do you always find rudeness works to your advantage, Miss Calhoun?”

“That, old age, and a hefty portfolio.” She took the tea Megan set in front of her, sipped, nodded grudgingly when she found it hot and strong. “Now then, sit down and listen to what I have to say. And don't prim your mouth at me, young lady.”

“I'm very fond of Coco,” Megan told her. “You embarrassed her.”

“Embarrassed her? Ha! She and that tattooed hulk have been mooning around after each other for days. Gave her a prod is what I did.” But she eyed Megan craftily. “Loyal when it’s deserved, are you?”

“I am.”

“And so am I. I made a few calls this morning, to some friends in Boston. Influential friends. Hush,” she ordered when Megan started to speak. “Detest politics myself, but it's often necessary to dance with the devil. Dumont should be being made aware, at this moment, that any contact with you, or your son, will fatally jeopardize his ambitions. He will not trouble you again.”

Megan pressed her lips together. She wanted her voice to be steady. No matter what she had said, how she had pretended, there had been an icy fear, like a cold ax balanced over her head, of what Baxter might do. In one stroke, Colleen had removed it.

“Why did you do it?”

“I loathe bullies. I particularly loathe bullies who interfere with the contentment of my family.”

“I'm not your family,” Megan said softly.

“Ha! Think again. You stuck your toe in Calhoun waters, girl. We're like quicksand. You're a Calhoun now, and you're stuck.”

Tears rushed into her eyes, blinding her. “Miss Calhoun—” Megan's words were cut off by the impatient rap of Colleen's cane. After a sniffle, Megan began again. “Aunt Colleen,” she corrected, understanding. “I'm very grateful.”

“So you should be.” Colleen coughed to clear her own husky voice. Then she raised it to a shout. “Come back in here, the lot of you! Stop listening at the door!”

It swung open, Coco leading the way. She walked to Colleen, bent, kissed the papery cheek.

“Stop all this nonsense.” She waved her grand-nieces away. “I want the girl to tell me how that strapping young man tossed that bully in the drink.”

Megan laughed, wiped her eyes. “He choked him first.”

“Ha!” Colleen rapped her cane in appreciation. “Don't spare the details.”

B. behaving oddly. Since return to island for summer she is absentminded, daydreaming. Arrived late for tea, forgot luncheon appointment. Intolerable. Unrest in Mexico annoying. Dismissed valet. Excess starch in shirts.

Unbelievable, Megan thought, staring at the notes Fergus had written in his crabbed hand beside stock quotations. He could speak of his wife, a potential war and his valet in the same faintly irritated tone. What a miserable life Bianca must have had. How terrible to be trapped in a marriage, ruled by a despot and without any power to captain your own destiny.

How much worse, she thought, if Bianca had loved him.

As she often did in the quiet hours before sleep, Megan flipped through the pages to the series of numbers. She had time now to regret that she'd never made it to the library.

Or perhaps Amanda was a better bet. Amanda might know whether Fergus had had foreign bank accounts, safe-deposit boxes.

Peering down, she wondered whether that was the answer. The man had had homes in Maine and in New York. These could be the numbers of various safe-deposit boxes. Even combinations to safes he'd kept in his homes.

That idea appealed to her, a straightforward answer to a small but nagging puzzle. A man as obsessed with his wealth and the making of money as Fergus Calhoun had been would very likely have kept a few secret stores.

Wouldn't it be fantastic, she thought, if there was some dusty deposit box in an old bank vault? Unopened all these years, she imagined. The key lost or discarded. The contents? Oh...priceless rubies or fat, negotiable bonds. A single faded photograph. A lock of hair wound with a gold ribbon.

She rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. “Imagination's in gear, Megan,” she murmured. “Too bad it's so farfetched.”

“What is?”

She jumped like a rabbit, her glasses sliding down to her chin. “Damn. Nathaniel.”

He was grinning as he closed and locked the terrace doors at his back. “I thought you'd be happy to see me.”

“I am. But you didn't have to sneak up on me that way.”

“When a man comes through a woman's window at night, he's supposed to sneak.”

She shoved her glasses back in place. “They're doors.”

“And you're too literal.” He leaned over the back of the chair where she sat and kissed her like a starving man. “I'm glad you talk to yourself.”

“I do not.”

“You were, just now. That's why I decided to stop watching you and come in.” He strolled to the hallway door, locked it. “You looked incredibly sexy sitting there at your neat little desk, your hair scooped up, your glasses sliding down your nose. In that cute, no-nonsense robe.”

She wished heartily that the practical terry cloth could transform into silk and lace. But she had nothing seductive to adorn herself in, and had settled for the robe and Coco's perfume.

“I didn't think you were coming after all. It's getting late.”

“I figured there'd be some hoopla over yesterday, and that you'd need to settle Kevin for the night. He didn't get wind of it, did he?”

“No.” It touched her that he would ask, that it would matter to him. “None of the children know. Everyone else has been wonderful. It's like thinking you're alone in a battle and then finding yourself surrounded by a circle of shields.” She smiled, tilted her head. “Are you holding something behind your back?”

His brows rose, as if in surprise. “Apparently I am.” He drew out a peony, a twin to the one he'd given her before. “'A rose,'“ he said, “'without a thorn.'“

He crossed to her as he spoke, and all she could think for one awed moment was that this man, this fascinating man, wanted her. He started to take its faded twin from the bud vase on her desk.

“Don't.” She felt foolish, but stayed his hand. “Don't throw it out.”

“Sentimental, Meg?” Moved that she had kept his token, he slipped the new bud in with the old. “Did you sit here, working late, looking at the flower and thinking of me?”

“I might have.” She couldn't fight the smile in his eyes. “Yes, I thought of you. Not always kindly.”

“Thinking's enough.” He lifted her hand, kissed her palm. “Nearly.” To her surprise, he plucked her from the chair, sat himself down and nestled her in his lap. “But this is a whole lot better.”

It seemed foolish to disagree, so she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Everyone's getting prepped for the big Fourth of July celebration,” she told him idly. “Coco and Dutch are arguing about recipes for barbecue sauce and the kids are bitterly disappointed we won't let them have small, colorful bombs to set off.”

“They'll end up making two kinds of sauce and asking everyone to take sides.” It was nice sitting like this, he thought, alone and quiet at the end of the day. “And the kids won't be disappointed after they see the fireworks display Trent organized.”

Kevin had talked of nothing else all evening, she remembered. “I've heard it's going to be quite a show.”

“Count on it. This bunch won't do anything halfway. Like fireworks, do you, sugar?”

“Almost as much as the kids.” She laughed and snuggled against him. “I can't believe it's July already. All I have to do is get about two dozen things out of the way so I can compete in the great barbecue showdown, keep the kids from setting themselves on fire and enjoy the show.”

“Business first,” he murmured. “Working on Fergus's book?”

“Mmm-hmm... I had no idea how much of a fortune he'd amassed, or how little he considered people. Look here.” She tapped her finger to the page. “Whenever he made a note about Bianca, it's as if she were a servant or, worse, a possession. He checked over the household accounts every day, to the penny. There's a notation about how he docked the cook thirty-three cents for a kitchen discrepancy.”

“A lot of people think more of money than soul.” He flipped idly through the book. “I can be sure you're not sitting on my lap because of my bank balance—since you know it down to the last nickel.”

“You're in the black.” “Barely.”

“Cash flow is usually thin the first few years in any business—and when you add in the outlay in equipment you've purchased, the down payment for the cottage, insurance premiums and licensing fees—”

“God, I love it when you talk profit and loss.” Letting the book close, he nipped playfully at her ear. “Talk to me about checks and balances, or quarterly returns. Quarterly returns make me crazy.”

“Then you'll be happy to know you and Holt underestimated your federal payments.”

“Mmm...” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You owe the government another two hundred and thirty dollars, which can be added to your next quarter due, or, more wisely, I can file an amended return.”

He swore halfheartedly. “How come we have to pay them in advance, anyway?”