Dangerous Ladies (52 page)

They hit a good-size tree head-on.

The air bags ripped the wheel out of his hand.

They skidded sideways. The side panel smacked another tree.

And they stopped.

The air bags deflated. The warm and comforting scent of cedar—no longer warm and comforting—filled the air.

In the sudden lack of motion, lack of sound, he could hear his heart thundering in his ears. Or was it Meadow’s heart he heard?

She clutched her head.

Damn it.
That concussion! “Meadow. Are you all right?”

She didn’t answer. She was conscious, but she wasn’t talking. And if Meadow wasn’t talking, there was definitely something wrong.

He unhooked her seat belt. “Is anything broken? Can you move
everything?” Two minutes ago he’d been furious with her. Twice today he’d given her the chance to tell him everything, and she’d refused. More than twice today she’d laughed with other men, charmed other men.

Then she’d had the nerve to look at him warily, as if he could be as dangerous and unforgiving as Bradley Benjamin and his cohorts.

A thought niggled at him—maybe he was more like them than he wished.

But he dismissed it when she said, “I’m fine.” She wiggled various body parts to show him, but she kept her hand on her head.

He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. They were tear-filled. Pain-filled. “Meadow. Are you all right?” He enunciated each word slowly.

“I’m fine,” she said again.

Yeah.
Sure she was. She looked like hell. Her red freckles stuck out in stark relief to her white complexion. She closed her eyes, as if keeping them open were too great an effort, and leaned her head against the headrest.

He sure wasn’t mad at her anymore.

“Damn it!” They were halfway between the Secret Garden and Amelia Shores. He pulled out his cell phone and looked. They had no service. They were alone out here with no protection. . . . His head whipped around.

A car was coming.

He leaned into the Jeep toward the pistol he kept locked in a box close at hand—and relaxed when Four’s stupid damned MINI honked from the road.

“What happened?” Four climbed out, a long-legged clown out of an absurdly tiny car, and rushed toward them. “Did you miss the corner?”

“Yeah. I missed the corner.” Devlin leaped out and hurried to Meadow. “Honey, I’m going to send you with Four.” He slid his arms around her.

“I can walk,” she said.

“But you don’t have to.” He headed for the MINI.

Four took one look at Meadow, then backed away as if he were afraid she’d hurl—and hurl on him. “Is she okay?”

“Take her to the hospital.”

Four tiptoed after them and opened the passenger-side door.

“I’m fine. I’m just tired,” she said, but she didn’t open her eyes.

Last night she’d been lively even after hitting her head. Today she looked drawn, exhausted; and with a pang, Devlin realized he shouldn’t have taken her to town, shouldn’t have relied on her to tell him whether she was tired. Meadow didn’t complain. Not while there was life to be lived.

Devlin slid her into the seat. “I want Dr. Apps to check her out. Don’t take no for an answer.” Taking Four’s shoulder, Devlin looked him in the eyes. “Don’t leave her alone, and don’t let anything happen to her. Or I’ll kill you.”

“Right. I know. Don’t blame you a bit. She’s great.” Four’s breathless agreement could be anxiety for Meadow—or it could be guilt.

Had Four had a hand in this accident?

No. No, Four might be mad at Devlin, but he wasn’t vicious. He never had been.

“What are you going to do?” Four asked.

“Call Frank Peterson,” Devlin said tersely.

Four knew Frank, the mechanic and handyman. “I don’t think he can fix
that
car.”

“No. Probably not.” But he could answer the question Devlin wanted answered.

Because this accident wasn’t an accident.

Miss Louise “Weezy” Woodward, teenage volunteer at the Amelia Shores Regional Hospital, hustled out of the waiting room like her tail feathers had been scorched. She stopped by the nurses’ station. “Mrs. Peterson, did you see that Devlin Fitzwilliam while his girlfriend
was in having a CT scan? I offered him a cup of coffee and a smile, and he about ripped my throat out.”

“Of course he did. He’s madly in love with her. Haven’t you heard?” Jazmin Peterson, nurse in command on this floor, grinned at the chance to impart the news and take pretty Weezy down a few notches. “That’s his wife.”

“His wife?” Weezy’s cheeks turned as bright pink as her hospital jacket. “He’s not married! He can’t be. Who told you? When did he marry?”

Jazmin leaned on the counter and drawled every single syllable. “It is the most romantic thing. I heard all about it from my Frank, who’s working out at the hotel doing odd jobs—and there are a lot of odd jobs to do, too, with stuff going wrong all the time, and half of it fishy stuff, if you know what I mean.”

“I heard old Mr. Bradley Benjamin was so mad he swore to kill Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“I heard that, too. But Mr. Benjamin came through here not too long ago, and he’s in no shape to kill anyone.” Jazmin nodded wisely. “If he don’t have a angiogram pretty soon, he’d better start preparing for the long journey home.”

“Never mind him!” Weezy grabbed Jazmin’s arm and shook it. “Tell me about Mr. Fitzwilliam and how he got married without any of us knowing it.”

“A long time ago, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam met and got married in Hawaii, then they had a big fight and she left him. That’s why Mr. Devlin’s been so ugly to everyone for so long.”

“He was dying of frustrated desire,” Weezy said.

“Yes, until she showed up on his doorstep last evening. They shared one night of passionate reunion; then he almost killed her by driving into a tree. That poor man. He’s swimming in guilt.”

“That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Weezy pressed her hand over her heart.

“And all true.” Frank had said there’d been gossip that Mrs. Fitzwilliam
broke into the house, but Jazmin figured that was just crazy talk, and she wasn’t the kind of woman to spread crazy talk.

Weezy, who was Amelia Shores to the bone, asked, “Who is her family?”

“No one knows. She’s some Yankee girl, but I’ll tell you one thing for sure—she’s not rich. I saw the calluses on her fingers myself.” That had made Jazmin like her a lot.

“What’s young Mr. Benjamin doing hanging around here?”

“I don’t think but he’s in love with her, too,” Jazmin said wisely. “He’s the one who brought her in, and you should have seen him. He was white-faced and shaking like a leaf.”

“That is not fair. She can’t have the two of them!” Young Weezy stomped her foot.

“I guess she can.” Jazmin gestured down the corridor. “There they go now.”

They watched the wheelchair roll toward the exit. Mr. Fitzwilliam walked beside the wheelchair, holding Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s hand.

Four walked behind them, weaving slightly.

“Do you suppose he’s been hitting the bottle again?” Weezy asked. “You know he always keeps that flask in his pocket.”

“And fills it up at Waldemar, according to my Frank. He just hangs around out there like some sorrowful ghost. Rumor has it he’s the reason Mr. Bradley Benjamin had to sell the house to Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“No! Why?”

“Young Mr. Benjamin’s not got a head for business.”

Dr. Apps stepped into the doorway of the examining room and watched her patient leave.

Jazmin lowered her voice. “Dr. Apps must have agreed to send Mrs. Fitzwilliam home. She didn’t want to—Mrs. Fitzwilliam was arguing like crazy—but Mr. Fitzwilliam said he would make sure his wife stayed in bed if he had to stay there with her. Dr. Apps looked as if he’d slapped her, and got real quiet.”

“Dr. Apps had aspirations toward him.”

“She wasn’t the only one.” Jazmin looked meaningfully at Weezy.

“Well, why not?” Weezy plumped her ample boobs with her hands. “I’m a good-looking girl, and there aren’t that many handsome millionaires in this town.”

They didn’t call her Sleazy Weezy for nothing.

“Devlin Fitzwilliam is not a handsome millionaire.” Jazmin chuckled. “He’s a handsome billionaire—and honey, you are so out of luck.”

J
ordan hustled into the kitchen, and Mia flinched. She always flinched when he was around. He was so critical. He bellowed so loudly. And now that he’d said she was going to be his saucier, the stakes were higher. If she messed up he would throw her out, and she needed this job. The divorce had left her with nothing except bills and two teenagers who hated her because their no-good daddy had skipped town.

“Come on!” Jordan clapped his hands. “We’re going up to stand on the porch and wait for Miz Fitzwilliam.”

“They’re not keeping her at the hospital?” Christian asked.

“Yes, but they’re releasing her in the morning, so we’ll stand there all night.” Jordan rolled his eyes. “Of course they’ve released her. Now,
vite
! They’ve turned in the gate.”

The two assistants took off their aprons and headed after their boss.

The sunshine made Mia blink, and so did the size of the crowd. She worked in the kitchen. She had no idea there were so many employees at the Secret Garden.

“There must be fifty people here,” she whispered to Christian.

“Sixty-five, last I heard, and Mr. Fitzwilliam’s secretary was hiring again today.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life, and I don’t know half these people.” She hung back and let Jordan push his way toward the front. She hated crowds. She hated meeting new people. But she’d liked the new Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and she was glad Jordan had let them come up to offer their support on her return.

“Plenty of them heard there was work to be had and came in from other towns. Mr. Fitzwilliam brought some in from Atlanta and such. And you know there’s always some people who drift in for the summer because they want to live on the beach.” Christian wasn’t originally from Amelia Shores—in fact, he talked twangy, like a Texan—but he’d lived here long enough to think he was an expert. “It was probably one of them who nicked the steering fluid line with something sharp.”

“No! On purpose?” She wrapped her hands around her waist.

Christian nodded. “Frank told Mr. Williams, who told Miz Burke, who told me that it happened while Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam were in town with Mr. Four.”

“Mr. Four didn’t do it!” Mia liked Four.

Christian laughed. “Yeah, he is sort of a doof, isn’t he? I heard it was his fault old Mr. Benjamin had to sell this place. I heard Four got into debt to Mr. Fitzwilliam, and this place was the only payment Mr. Fitzwilliam would take.”

“How do you hear this?”

“I take my breaks in the break room instead of the kitchen. You should try it sometime.”

Mia ignored that. “There they are,” she said as the long limo pulled up to the steps.

Like a colorful aluminum can tied to the bumper of the real car, Mr. Benjamin’s MINI followed.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam is such a nice lady—and she’s married to
him.
” Christian shuddered. “I guess that proves any guy can get a wife if he’s got enough money. Mr. Fitzwilliam scares me to death.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam scared her, too. He was that kind of man. But he’d been kind to her, more than anyone else in Amelia Shores, giving her a job based on nothing except a stint as a cook at a long-vanished restaurant in town and presenting her to Jordan as a permanent employee. Her knees might quake when Mr. Fitzwilliam was around, but she was grateful to him. “I don’t think he’s that bad.”

“Oh, yeah? Cecily said she got behind cleaning her rooms and he almost threw her out.”

Mia gloated a little. She did have some gossip Christian didn’t know. “Cecily didn’t tell you everything. She got caught taking a nap on the bed she was supposed to be making, and the only reason she got a second chance was that she pleaded a dependent child. That, and the fact that Mr. Fitzwilliam’s having a hell of a time getting enough help, between the tourist season starting and old Mr. Benjamin dissing him all over town.”