Do Not Disturb (11 page)

“Looks like we’re both still here,” she drawled, flicking ash into a used coffee cup on the bedside table as he walked in. “Whatever happened to dragging me onto the plane yourself?”

“You can cut out the lip,” said Devon firmly, unplugging the stereo from the wall despite Lola’s protests and pulling the cigarette out of her hand. “I’m going out, and I won’t be back till late. Either you finish your packing and clean up this pigsty”—he picked up the coffee cup, frowning at the cigarette butts bobbing around in it like flotsam on a muddy pond—“or I cut off your allowance till Christmas. Period.”

“Whatever,” said Lola, although inside her defiance was waning. St. Mary’s was bad enough, but St. Mary’s without an allowance would be hell on earth. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“None of your business,” said Devon.

It was hard to tell which of them felt more relief when he finally left the house a few minutes later, slamming the front door behind him and zooming off in his new BMW convertible. But one thing was for sure: wherever he was headed, he was in one hell of a hurry.

Anton Tisch buttered another piece of toast, cutting it carefully into four pieces before offering one of them to the slavering Great Dane that sat obediently at his feet.

“There you are, my Mitzi,” he cooed, bending his face so close to the dog’s that their noses were almost touching. “Who’s my good girl?”

For the last six years, Mitzi had been Anton’s constant companion, traveling back and forth from London to Geneva and reigning supreme as the undisputed queen of both his homes and his heart. Most people found his doting affection for the huge, intimidating-looking animal incongruous, even creepy. This was a man, after all, who couldn’t seem to muster a shred of human sympathy for his own children, never mind business associates or social “friends,” whom he routinely discarded with all the dispassionate ruthlessness of an executioner. Yet with Mitzi he was as adoring and besotted as any lover.

“The second mail delivery is here, Mr. Tisch.” A butler in full livery glided up to the table and set a neatly bound package down at his elbow. Anton made a point of keeping a full household staff in Mayfair—one must keep up appearances at all times—although in Geneva, where nobody cared how he’d made his fortune just as long as he had made it, he “made do” with only a cook, driver, and valet.

“Thank you, Gavin.” Idly, he began leafing through the stack of letters. “That will be all.”

Annoyingly, there didn’t appear to be anything from his New York lawyer. He was waiting on some documents that were supposed to have arrived by FedEx yesterday. As he was due to fly back to Switzerland later tonight, they’d be no use to him if they arrived in London tomorrow. It was all very aggravating.

Picking up his cell, he jabbed out a number.

“They’re still not here,” he barked into the handset, so loudly that Mitzi jumped. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Relax.” Josh Schwartz, one of Anton’s many lawyers, was used to his client’s capricious moods. “They’ll show up. I’ll get copies faxed to you in Geneva in the meantime. But listen, I have good news on a different front.”

“What?” Anton sounded distinctly nonchalant.

“I think I’ve finally dug up some dirt on Morty Sullivan.”

Anton sat up, interested. Now this was good news. Mortimer Sullivan was the dreadful old fossil who chaired the planning
committee in East Hampton. For some years now, Anton had had his eye on the town as a perfect spot to open a new Tischen. The once-great Palmers had long since declined into mediocrity, and with Trey Palmer apparently on his last legs, usurped by his own utterly inexperienced daughter by all accounts, its position was looking more vulnerable than ever. The problem was that the town seemed to be run like the Palmer family’s private fiefdom. Whenever Anton had found a suitable building to convert or plot to build on, he’d been denied permission to fart there by Sullivan and his small-minded, sycophantic cronies. Those guys didn’t want any change at all, never mind some upstart European showing up to build one of his flashy hotels in their backyard. It was the same old story, and Anton was heartily sick of it. “Tell me more,” he said, licking his lips with anticipation of the juicy gossip to come. “Is it something we can use?”

“Hell, yeah.” Josh was actually laughing now. As far as Anton knew, his lawyer hadn’t so much as broken a smile since his ex-wife’s rottweiler of a divorce attorney got shot in the balls in a freak hunting accident. This must be good. “It involves a twenty-two-year-old dancer called Danny Carlucci. I’m looking at the Polaroids right now. If this doesn’t get the guy to back off, nothing will.”

Handing Mitzi the last quarter of toast, Anton hung up, smiling broadly. This business in the papers with Heidi had put him in a foul mood, but at last he felt it lifting. Yesterday’s
Evening Standard
would be tomorrow’s fish and chips wrapping anyway. People would forget about the story soon enough. Whereas the prospect of a new Tischen in the Hamptons? Now that was something lasting, something real.

Trey Palmer’s daughter might not realize it yet, but her special relationship with the East Hampton planning committee was about to come to an abrupt end. And just in time.

Waking up with a start, Honor looked at the time on the little electric clock by her bedside. It was ten fifteen.

“Fuuuck,” she groaned quietly to herself. How had that happened? Admittedly she’d had a late and drunken night. She’d done a good job appearing together and in control on the boat, saying her good-byes to Devon. But as soon as she got back to Palmers she’d headed straight for her suite and the drinks cabinet and proceeded to take herself out on vodka, drinking into the small hours. The last thing she wanted was for him to realize how desperately she needed him and how much she dreaded his departure. They’d only been seeing each other a few weeks. She mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t scare him off.

If Devon was confused by their blossoming relationship, Honor felt completely undone by it. Part of her lived for the brief hours they spent together. But another, larger part was gripped by a permanent, cold panic. OK, so his marriage was a sham, but he was still married, and with children too. After all the lectures she’d given Tina, what the hell was she doing, playing fast and loose with her own reputation and, by extension, Palmers’? She knew she ought to break it off, for a myriad of reasons. But she’d been so lonely for so long the thought of letting Devon go made her want to vomit. Subconsciously, she’d looked for father figures in the past. But in Devon she’d really, truly found one. He was so strong, so solid, so rocklike and reassuring. And sexually, he’d cracked her in a way that no one else ever had.

At some point during her drunken marathon last night, Honor couldn’t recall exactly when, Tina had called. With her usual uncanny sense of bad timing, she’d picked this of all nights to moan about how hard her life in LA was without Danny.

“It’s all right for you,” she whined. “You’re far too sensible ever to fall for a married man.” Tina made the word “sensible” sound like the most pointed of insults. “You don’t know what it’s like, knowing that person is out there but that you can’t have
them. It’s hell, Honor.
Hell.
You have no idea what I’m going through.”

It took a superhuman effort of will for Honor to keep her mouth shut about Devon, but somehow she managed it. Sharing any kind of sensitive information with her sister was tantamount to posting it on Facebook. Tina had about as much discretion as a foghorn, as Honor knew to her cost.

Having finally managed to get Tina off the phone, it rang again almost immediately. This time it was Lise, bitching that she wasn’t getting any help with the rapidly declining Trey.

“I’m on my own here with him twenty-four seven,” she complained. “He can’t even use the bathroom by himself anymore. It’s disgusting.” If she was looking for a sympathetic ear, she’d come to the wrong place.

“You married a guy old enough to be your father,” slurred Honor. “What did you expect? Besides, he has two full-time nurses, Lise. No one’s expecting you to play Florence Nightingale.”

“Like hell they aren’t,” Lise snapped. “Those nurses are lazy as shit. And what the hell happened to you and Tina, anyway? When was the last time either of you visited him?”

This was below the belt.

“He refuses to see me,” Honor mumbled, a knot of confused emotion forming in the pit of her stomach like a tumor, even through her drunkenness. “You know that. I’m trying to put things right at Palmers, for him more than anyone. I’m working nonstop here.”

“Jesus, Honor, don’t you get it?” Lise interrupted viciously. “Your dad doesn’t care about Palmers. The man’s incontinent, OK? He’s a retard.”

Honor hung up at that point and kicked up the alcohol consumption to a whole new level. Maybe it was losing her father that was making this thing with Devon so painfully important to her? She had in fact been back to Boston twice since taking over at Palmers, trips she could ill afford,
but Trey had refused to let her onto the property. Back in East Hampton, she called three times a week, but not once had he allowed her to be put through. He’d told her in Sam Brannagan’s office that he would never forgive her for taking control of his assets. So far, it looked as though he intended to be as good as his word.

Waking up this morning, Honor felt like someone had thrown the mother of all Fourth of July parties inside her cranium. Fumbling in the drawer of her bedside table for some aspirin, she crammed three into her mouth without water before throwing off her covers and staggering into the shower.

Slowly, as the warm jets of water pounded onto her aching body, she started to feel more alive. Squirting a dollop of her favorite lemongrass shower gel into her palms, she began rubbing it all over her body, working up a lather that she massaged into her hair and face as well. She wanted to wash away all traces of last night and was starting to enjoy the tingling sensation on her skin when suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shower curtain twitch.

There wasn’t even time to panic. Ripping the rubbery fabric aside, still half-blinded by soapsuds, she let out a blood-curdling shriek, launching herself on her would-be attacker with a well-placed kick to the groin.

“You fucker!” she yelled, kicking and punching and scratching blindly as adrenaline translated her fear into anger. “You piece of shit!”

“Honor!” It took a second or two for Devon’s voice to penetrate the fog in her brain. “For God’s sake stop, Honor. It’s me.”

“Devon?” Opening her eyes at last, she saw him lying beneath her on the tiled bathroom floor, half shielding his face with one arm. “What are you doing here? You should be on a plane to Boston.”

“Lola wasn’t ready to go,” he panted. “And neither was I. I had to see you again.”

Despite the searing pain in his balls from where she’d kicked him, the sight of her leaning over him naked, dripping, and still slippery with soapsuds was making him hard already. Reaching up around her neck, he pulled her beautiful, elfin face down until the tips of their noses touched, then let his hands glide down the wet runway of her back to rest on her butt.

“You scared me,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she felt his fingers slipping around her hips and disappearing into the damp triangle of her pubic hair. So much for wrestling with her conscience. She could no more finish things with Devon than fly to the moon, and she knew it.

“Not half as much as you scared me.” Unzipping his jeans, he freed his now rock-solid erection. “You might have warned me you had a black belt in karate.”

Easing herself down onto his dick, Honor began rocking slowly back and forth, her hangover suddenly quite forgotten. Her face was pressed against his now, and she found herself doing something she never normally did: looking right into his eyes while he made love to her.

Before long, despite his best efforts at restraint, Devon felt his orgasm building.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, looking almost in pain as he bit into her shoulder and came deep inside her. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it. I…shit, Honor, what’s wrong?”

Opening his eyes, he saw tears streaming down her face. Still inside her, he sat up and wrapped both arms around her.