Dawn in Eclipse Bay (13 page)

Memories and impressions stirred her senses. Sex with Gabe had been as disorienting, thrilling, and ultimately as disturbing as that flash of recognition that sometimes struck while she was in the process of trying to translate a vision onto a canvas. In those rare moments of acute awareness she could
see
the whole picture in her mind. But the images came so swiftly, so relentlessly, that it was impossible to paint fast enough to keep up with them. She had learned to concentrate on the critical elements, the core of the vision, knowing that she could go back later to fill in the less essential parts.

Now she tried to do just that, calling up the little details that she had missed during the passionate encounter. The way his fingers had closed around her thigh. The way his teeth had grazed a nipple. The way his tongue—

“You awake?” Gabe asked.

“Yes.”

He shifted a little, settling her more comfortably into the curve of his body. “What are you thinking about?”

She smiled into the pillow and said nothing.

He nibbled gently on her shoulder. “Tell me.”

“I was just wondering why you lied on the Private Arrangements questionnaire.”

“Can't let it go, can you?”

“Nope.”

“Going to throw it in my face again and again, aren't you?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, why do you think I lied?”

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him, trying to read his expression in the shadows. Impossible. “I think you fiddled with the responses because subconsciously you didn't want me to find you a perfect match. You set things up so that failure was the only option.”

“Huh. Why the hell would I do that after paying you all that money for some good matches?”

She put her hand on his bare chest. “Probably because, when crunch time came, your Madison genes just couldn't tolerate the idea of applying such a sensible, logical, rational approach to an intimate relationship with a woman.”

“Screwed by my genetic predisposition to do things the hard way, you think?”

She drew her fingertips through the crisp, curling hair. “Madisons are known for doing things the hard way.”

“True.” He stroked the curve of her head. “There's just one point I want to make before we get up in a few hours and fix breakfast.”

“And your point is?”

“Tonight does not qualify as my sixth date.”

For an instant, she did not understand. Then the meaning of his words shot through her brain, charring the semi–dream state she had been enjoying.

She sat bolt upright. His arm slid down to her hips. Aware that she was nude, she grabbed the sheets and held them to her breasts.

“I've got news for you,” she said, “we had dinner and sex. If that doesn't qualify as a date in your book, I'd like to know what does. It's certainly a heck of a lot more than any of my other dates have involved in a very long time.”

“You came over here tonight because you felt sorry for me, remember? Being neighborly doesn't qualify as a date.”

Anger, pain, and outrage slammed through her without warning. She found herself teetering on an invisible emotional cliff that she had not even noticed a few seconds ago.

“I certainly didn't sleep with you just to jolly you out of your brooding mood.”

“It worked, though.” He closed his palm around her hip, squeezing gently. “I'm feeling a lot more cheerful than I did earlier.”

“Damn it, Gabe, don't you dare imply that having sex was no different than…than playing gin rummy together. One is a game. The other is not.”

There was a short silence. Was he actually having to think about her comment? She went cold. Maybe he didn't believe that there was any major difference between sex and gin rummy. Maybe to him they both ranked as nothing more than casual pastimes.

Maybe she had been a complete fool.

“One is a game, the other is not,” Gabe repeated very deliberately. “This is a test, right?”

“Yes,” she said through her teeth. “And if you get it wrong, you're a doomed man.”

“Okay, okay, just give me a minute.” He sounded as serious and intent as a game show contestant who had a hundred thousand dollars riding on the outcome. “One is a game. The other is not. One is a game. The other—”

“Gabe, so help me—”

“I'm thinking, I'm thinking.”

There was an odd ringing in her ears now. Surely she could not have been dumb enough to go to bed with a man who treated sex as entertainment for a rainy night in a small town where there was very little in the way of nightlife. She could not have misjudged Gabe Madison so badly. She was a professional matchmaker, for heaven's sake.

He moved his warm palm up over her hip, along the curve of her waist, and pulled her down across his chest. One of her legs lodged between his thighs. She felt a familiar pressure and knew that he was getting hard again.

He cupped her buttock in one hand. “I'm ready.”

The sensual laughter in his voice jolted her back to reality. He was teasing her. She was overreacting. Time to get a grip. Act mature and sophisticated.

With an act of will she forced herself to step back from the invisible emotional precipice. Her ears stopped ringing. She took a deep breath and managed a cool smile.

“I'm waiting for your answer,” she said.

“Gin rummy is the game, right?”

“Congratulations. Right answer.”

He slipped his fingertips along the rim of the cleavage that divided her derrière. Without warning, he rolled her onto her back and came down on top of her.

“What do you think you're doing?” she whispered.

“Collecting my prize.”

A long time later she stirred again and leaned over him.

“You know,” she said, “there was another reason I decided to stay tonight.”

He smiled in the darkness. His hand moved in her hair.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I was curious to see what you do with the peanut butter.”

“I'll show you.”

“Now?”

“This is as good a time as any. I seem to have worked up an appetite.”

The sound of a heavy engine lumbering down the drive toward the house woke him. He opened his eyes. The gray light of a rainy morning illuminated the window. Beside him, Lillian did not stir.

What he wanted most in the world at that moment, he thought, was to stay right where he was with Lillian's beautifully curved bottom nestled against his midsection. But the rumble outside made that a non-option.

With deep regret, he eased himself cautiously away from her warmth. She wriggled a little, as though in protest. He leaned over and kissed her shoulder. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the pillow.

He studied her as he rose and reached for his pants. She looked very good lying there in his bed. Like she belonged there.

Outside the large vehicle had come to a halt. The motor shut down.

He made himself go out into the hall, pausing long enough to close the bedroom door firmly. Then he went into the main room.

He glanced around quickly on his way to the front door, checking to see if there was any evidence of Lillian's presence. A glimmering pool filled with shifting lights on the floor caught his eye. He scooped up the iridescent rain cloak and crammed it into the hall closet.

By the time he got the front door open and saw the familiar SUV hulking in the drive, his grandfather was already on the porch.

“What the hell is going on here,” Mitchell roared. He thumped his cane on the boards for emphasis. “Just what are you up to, Gabe Madison?”

Damn
.

Gabe reassessed the situation quickly. Lillian had walked to his place. Her car was not in the drive. Mitchell could not possibly know that she had spent the night here.

Could he?

Small towns had some serious drawbacks when it came to privacy issues.

When in doubt, stall.

“Good morning to you, too,” he said easily. “When did you get back into town?”

“Last night. Late.”

“Where's Bev?”

Bev Bolton, the widow of a former editor of the
Eclipse Bay Journal
, was the woman Mitchell had been seeing for several months She had accompanied him to Hawaii. Bev lived in Portland. Mitchell had been so discreet about the relationship that for several extremely uneasy weeks Gabe and Rafe had both feared that his frequent trips to the city had been for the purpose of seeing a specialist. They had leaped to the conclusion that he was suffering from some dire medical condition that he was trying to keep from them. The truth had come as an enormous, if somewhat startling, relief.

“Bev went on down to California to visit her grandkids,” Mitchell said. “Now tell me what's happening here.”

“Not much.” He yawned and absently rubbed his chest. It was cold out here. Should have grabbed a shirt out of the closet. “Been raining a lot.”

“Don't try to change the topic. This is me, your grandfather, you're talking to. I had coffee in town at the bakery. Must have been at least half a dozen folks who couldn't wait to tell me that Marilyn Thornley's car was seen turning into your driveway last night around suppertime.”

Gabe drew a slow, deep breath. Relief replaced some of the tension that had tightened every muscle in his belly. Mitchell didn't know about Lillian. He was here because of Marilyn's car.

“Well, it's gone now, isn't it?” Gabe said.

He moved farther out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him. Rain dripped steadily from the edge of the porch roof. The temperature had to be in the very low fifties. Maybe the high forties. He tried to ignore the chill. How long did it take to contract a case of hypothermia?

He'd just have to tough it out. He could not risk going back inside to get more clothes. Mitchell would follow him into the hall and the commotion would awaken Lillian. She would probably come out of the bedroom to see what was going on and all hell would break loose. A real doomsday scenario, if ever there was one.

He needed to think and he needed to do it fast.

Priorities, priorities.

The first order of business was to get rid of Mitchell.

He glanced at the SUV and raised a hand in a casual salute to Mitchell's faithful factotum, Bryce, who waited stoically behind the wheel. Bryce nodded once, acknowledging the greeting with a military-style inclination of his head.

Gabe turned back to Mitchell. “So, how was Hawaii?”

“Hawaii was fine.” Mitchell scowled. “Hawaii is always fine. I didn't come here to talk about my vacation.”

“I was trying to be civil.”

“Bullshit. You're trying to slip and slide around this thing. Don't waste my time. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday. I want to know what's up with you and Marilyn Thornley.”

“Absolutely nothing of any great interest to anyone, including me.” Gabe folded his arms. Nothing like a clear conscience when dealing with the old man.

The tension that simmered between the two of them lately was a new element in their relationship. Gabe could not pinpoint when it had first begun to emerge. Sometime during the last two years, he thought. It had grown remarkably more acute since Rafe's marriage, however.

In the old days, after he and Rafe had gone to live with Mitchell following the death of their parents, there had been relatively few conflicts between Gabe and his grandfather. Rafe had been the rebel, the one who had gone toe-to-toe with Mitchell at every turn.

But looking back, Gabe knew that he had taken the opposite path, not because he had wanted to please Mitchell but because he was committed to his future goal. All he had cared about was his dream of proving that a Madison could be a success. In high school he had charted a course that he had calculated would enable him to achieve his objective and he had stuck to it. He had been the one who had gotten the good grades, stayed out of trouble and graduated from college because he could see that was how the Hartes did things. They had been his role models. It was clear to him, even as a boy, that the traditional Madison approach to life led to poor outcomes.

In the end, he had achieved his objective. He had put together a business empire that rivaled Harte Investments. One of these days, it would be even bigger than Harte.

He knew that now, although he had not built Madison Commercial with the conscious intention of pleasing his grandfather. Mitchell's approval had been one of the satisfying side effects of success. He had taken it for granted for some time.

The realization that nothing he had accomplished seemed to matter to Mitchell anymore left him with a peculiar, empty feeling deep inside. This morning, for the first time, he realized that anger was seeping in to fill the void.

What right did the old man have to give him advice on how to run his life?

Mitchell squinted, searching Gabe's face. Whatever he saw there appeared to reassure him somewhat.

“Marilyn didn't hang around?”

“Not for long,” Gabe said mildly.

“She and Thornley are calling it quits, you know,” Mitchell said.

“I heard.”

“Word is, she's got her own plans to go into politics.”

Gabe dropped his arms and wrapped his hands around the wet railing. Damn, it was cold. In another few minutes his teeth would probably start to chatter. “She told me that much yesterday when she stopped by to see me. Probably do okay.”

“You know what she's after, don't you?”

“Sure. Don't worry, Mitch, I didn't just fall off the turnip truck either. It's obvious that Marilyn is looking for someone to help finance her political career.”

“I hear her father is a little pissed because she blew so much cash on Thornley's campaign. They say Caldwell isn't real eager to pump more money into another political race, even if it is his daughter who is running this time.”

“The Caldwells will come around. Eventually. They always do for Marilyn.”

Mitchell nodded. “That woman always did have a way of getting what she wanted, even when she was a little girl. Still, no politician ever has enough cash. She could use a rich husband with connections. Looks like you're back on her radar scope.”

“I'm not interested in being married to a politician. If she doesn't know that already, I think she'll figure it out real quick. Marilyn is smart.”

“The two of you had something going there for a while. Maybe she figures she can relight some old flames.”

Gabe shrugged. “Whatever we had was over a long time ago.”

“Don't count on her giving up easily.”

“Okay, I won't count on it.”

Mitchell's hawklike face tightened in a shrewd expression. “You know, things would be a whole lot simpler if you got married.”

Gabe gripped the railing and said nothing.

“Marilyn Thornley wouldn't be hanging around here at suppertime if you had a wife,” Mitchell said.

Gabe looked at him. “Don't start.”

“A man your age oughtta be married. Hell, I was married at your age.”

“Would that have been Alicia or Janine? No, wait, Alicia was number three, wasn't she? So was it Susan? It can't have been Trish because I'm sure you told me once that Trish was number one. Must have been Janine.”

Mitchell hammered the cane against the boards. “The point is, I was married.”

“And divorced. A couple of times, at least at that point. Two down and two more to go.”

“So I screwed up once or twice.”

“Four times in all.”

“Shoot and damn.” Mitchell's voice went up a few decibels. “You're supposed to learn from my mistakes.”

“Madisons never learn from their mistakes. Family tradition.”

Mitchell raised the cane and leveled it at him as if it were a rapier. “You know what your problem is? You're going about this marriage business all wrong.”

“You're certainly an authority on the subject.”

Mitchell snorted. “Should have known you couldn't go after a woman the way you go after investment prospects for Madison Commercial.”

“I did manage to figure that out. That's why I signed up with Private Arrangements.”

“What the hell kind of results do you expect from a computer?” Mitchell shot back. “I'm not saying Lillian Harte isn't a smart lady. No such thing as a stupid Harte. And I'm not saying she doesn't know how to run her business. But the fact is, you aren't going to have any luck finding a wife with a computer.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're a Madison, that's why not. When it comes to women, a Madison relies on his gut, not his brain.”

“And look where it's gotten us,” Gabe said. “Three generations of screwed-up relationships.”

“Rafe broke that jinx.” Mitchell lowered the cane with grim dignity. “I expect you to do the same, by God. But you're gonna have to stop fooling around with Madison Commercial for a while and pay attention to what's important.”

That did it.

Gabe felt his Madison temper flash through him with all the stunning heat of summer lightning. It crackled and flared, surging forth from the windowless vault where he kept it locked and chained in the name of establishing total control.

He released the railing and turned on Mitchell.

“Fooling around with Madison Commercial? Is that what you call what I've been doing all these years?
Fooling around with Madison Commercial?
”

Mitchell blinked. Then the lines at the corners of his eyes creased in wary concern. “Simmer down, son. Just trying to have us a reasonable discussion here.”

“Fooling around with Madison Commercial? Is that what you call building a major venture capital company that did a few hundred million dollars' worth of business last year?”

“Now, see here, Gabe, this isn't what—”

“Maybe it has slipped your mind that your stock in Madison Commercial is the primary source of your retirement income.”

“Shoot and damn, this isn't about money.”

“Not about money? All I ever heard from you when I was growing up was how Harte-Madison had been destroyed because you and Sullivan Harte went to war over a woman. How many times did you tell me how you'd been financially ruined because Claudia Banner made fools out of you and Harte? A couple of thousand, maybe?”

“What happened to Harte-Madison all those years ago has got nothing to do with this.”

“The Hartes recovered financially because they had the brains and the determination to concentrate on business. You could have done the same thing, but you didn't, did you, Mitch? You preferred to get married. Over and over again.”

“This is your grandfather you're dealing with here. Show some respect.”

Gabe flexed his hands at his sides. “I proved to you and the whole damn world that a Madison could be as successful as a Harte.”

“I'm not saying you haven't been successful with Madison Commercial. But the fact that the company's making a profit isn't what's important here.”