Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (79 page)

It was his own fault, he knew that. She had withdrawn to protect herself; he had hurt her badly and she wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to do it again. But her current behavior made him treasure the pleasant memories of her company even more. They were bittersweet reminders of what he was busily throwing away with both hands.

Devlin went to the window and looked out at the Manhattan night. There would never be another woman like Angela for him. Anyone else would be second best, a distant runner up to the gangster’s niece who had so thoroughly captured his heart. He was in love, deeply and totally, for the first time in his life.

Devlin had a lot of experience with women but minimal experience with love. This overwhelming need for Angela, the all consuming drive for possession of the woman upstairs, had taken him by surprise and left him defenseless. He didn’t know what was going to happen next, but he had a strong feeling that it wasn’t going to be good.

He let the curtain fall and went to stretch out on the bed. He might as well try to get some sleep.

Tomorrow was going to be one long, tough day.

* * * *

Angela spent the morning getting ready for the evening’s affair. When Devlin emerged from his room around noon it was clear from one glance that this was not going to be a bobbing-for-apples type of Halloween party. This was going to be a champagne-and-caviar type of Halloween party. Angela had shifted into high gear with casual aplomb. As Devlin watched her handling florists and caterers with polite firmness he could see that she was negotiating familiar territory. She must have done this for her uncle many times. He began to see what an asset she might be to Cronin’s career. The guy was interested in more than just her money and Frank Patria’s business. Angela would make the perfect socialite wife.

This was an aspect of Angela’s personality he hadn’t been exposed to previously. In law school she was a student like any other, albeit a good one, and with him she was frightened for her safety and unsure of herself sexually. But today she was as competent, and confident, as a blue blood debutante at a charity ball.

This knowledge did not make Devlin happy.

Two brawny kids in gray coveralls were setting up a huge jack-o’-lantern in the bay window, and Angela hovered near them, giving directions. Devlin wondered what her reaction would be if she knew that early that morning, before she was awake, he had slipped into the street and handed the rolls of microfilm to a messenger sent by the Bureau. Devlin’s predawn call had created some excitement at headquarters; there was a general feeling that this would be the payoff for his stay in the Patria house.

Devlin hoped that the developed print would merit their enthusiasm.

Angela turned away from the window to rearrange some flowers standing in a vase and caught Devlin’s eye. A veiled expression came over her face as she visibly withdrew. She always looked at him that way now.

“Everything under control?” Devlin asked in a conversational manner.

“Of course,” Angela replied smoothly, bending to inhale the fragrance of the roses. Her implication was clear: I don’t need you for this. Go away.

Devlin went away.

He wandered into the kitchen, where Josie was covering trays of canapés with plastic wrap. Her white uniform hung on the back of the door. For “everyday” wear she didn’t bother with formality and wore jeans, but for Cronin’s buddies she was putting on the full servant regalia.

She looked up at him as he paused in the doorway.

“Where’s Angela?” she asked.

“In the living room, setting up the decorations.”

Josie frowned. “She said she was going down to the cellar to pick out the wine.” Josie brushed past him and he heard a conversation between the two women. Josie returned shortly to resume her task and glanced at Devlin, who had remained in the same position while she was gone.

“Something on your mind, Brett?” she asked.

“Why is she doing this for him?” he asked abruptly.

Josie’s hands continued their routine motions, but there was a slight change in her expression that Devlin was too preoccupied to notice.

“Why is Angela giving this party for Philip?” Josie responded.

“Right.”

“Because she promised several months ago that she would.”

“Does she always take over his social engagements?”

“This is the first time to my knowledge,” Josie replied mildly.

Devlin picked up an apple from the basket on the counter and played with it. Josie waited for what was to come.

“Is she in love with him?” Devlin finally blurted out.

No, you ox, she’s in love with you, Josie thought. Aloud she said, “You’ll have to ask Angela that.”

This was obviously not the answer he wanted. After another pause he said, “She doesn’t
seem
to be in love with him, but then why is she going to so much trouble for him?”

“She gave her word. Angela is very loyal to her friends.” Josie set aside a wrapped tray and picked up another one.

Devlin prowled restlessly about the narrow, galley style kitchen, a big cat in a little cage. Sunlight streaming from the window reflected from the stainless steel appliances and glinted in his hair.

Josie sighed. “Brett, sit down. You’ll be trampling these canapés soon.”

Devlin sat in a Windsor chair, his head bent, his hands clasped on the butcher block table before him. Josie almost laughed out loud. At times like this it was easy for her to see through him. Beneath the rugged good looks and the intimidating manner was the obedient Midwestern farm boy he had once been. He knew how to take direction.

“Would you like something to eat? I can make you a sandwich.”

“No, thanks,” he said, retrieving the apple he’d set down. “I can have this.”

Josie picked up two trays and put them into the refrigerator. She turned back to her companion.

“Brett, what is it, son? You can tell me.”

He just shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

Josie folded her arms. She would never understand this boy. He was five times the man Philip was on Philip’s best day. One word from Devlin would bring Angela running but he wouldn’t say that word. He was letting her slip through his fingers, and Josie was damned if she knew why.

“I can see that something is bothering you,” she added gently.

He remained obdurate.

Josie put the salmon mousse on the counter, clearing a space for herself at the table across from Devlin. She sat and confronted him. He slowly raised his golden eyes to hers as Josie considered what to say. How could she encourage him to go after Angela without betraying what the younger woman had told her in confidence?

“Brett, will you take my advice?”

He smiled slightly. “I’ll try, Mrs. Clinton.”

“If you want something, go after it. I’ve lived a lot longer than you, and I know that we can’t afford to let chances pass us by. We don’t get all that many of them.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” he said miserably.

She could see that she wasn’t making him feel any better. “Nothing is as important as happiness, no matter what you have to do to find it.”

He nodded slowly. “I wish it were that simple but it isn’t.”

“And you can’t talk about it.”

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “No, ma’am, I cannot talk about it.”

Every line of his lean, hard body bespoke defeat. Josie reached over and patted his arm. He astonished her by seizing her hand and raising it to his lips. Then he stood and left the room.

Josie remained rooted to her chair, blinking back tears.

Angela honey, she urged silently, don’t let him get away.

* * * *
 

The dying light of October dusk suffused Angela’s room with a ruddy glow as she spread out on her bed the dress she was to wear that evening. It was a celery green Grecian-style gown, clasped at the waist and neckline with ropes of gold. She was to be Cassandra, prophetess of doom, cursed by Apollo to make accurate predictions of disaster that no one would believe until the worst had happened. What an awful gift, Angela thought, to see a baleful future and be unable to convince anyone of what was about to occur.

Angela made a wry face as she smoothed the silken material of the floor length gown.

She didn’t have to be Cassandra to predict that this evening would be a trial.

Philip was a wreck, worried and anxious that his wealthy, important friends be properly impressed with Patria’s house and Patria’s niece. And Devlin had been stalking around all day like a walking thundercloud threatening a storm. She knew his moods by now, and in this one it would not take much to set him off; she wished that she could send him to his room for the duration, but he was a little big to be sentenced to such a fate. He would never agree to stay out of sight. Visible bodyguards were the most effective kind.

Well, everything was ready. She had done her best to provide a luxurious entertainment. Now the outcome was in the hands of fate.

There was a knock on her door and she opened it a crack.

“Just me,” Holly said, pushing inside, her dress encased in a plastic bag over her shoulder.

“Oh, hi, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Himself let me in. He was in the living room smoking, wearing what must be the worst rags he owns. That sweatshirt looks like somebody was buried in it. I certainly hope he intends to change.”

“Holly, he’s being impossible. I wish I could lock him in a closet until this was all over.”

“Nothing has changed between you two?” Holly asked quietly.

“No, and I don’t want to discuss it now. I have enough to worry about tonight.”

“Okay, okay, don’t snap at me. Where’s Josie?”

“She went downtown to pick up the paté. The delivery truck broke down, would you believe it?”

“I hope that isn’t a portent of what’s in store for us this evening.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Angela replied gloomily. She picked up her shoes and began brushing them. “Did you get Chris off all right?”

Chris was Holly’s husband, and she had brought him to the airport that afternoon to catch a plane to Florida for a business trip. His family had a wholesale fruit business and he traveled frequently to set up deals with the citrus growers.

“There was traffic all the way there and back,” Holly answered grumpily. “And Chris was in a rotten mood. They’ve been having bad frosts or something and he thinks the farmers are really going to stick it to him.”

“Sounds like everybody’s been having a wonderful day.”

Holly unpinned her scarf and deftly removed the rollers from her light brown hair. “Cheer up. Things will improve. What do you think of my outfit?” She took off the bag and shook out the gown she’d brought, an empire-waist sheath beribboned along the scoop neck and on the cap sleeves, complete with a matching bonnet dangling from the hanger. She was dressing as Jane Austen.

“It looks great.”

“And to think I made it with my own little hands.” She untied the bonnet and tried it on. “I take it Devlin isn’t wearing a costume.”

“For him it’s a ‘come as you are’ party,” Angela snorted. “He’s appearing as Heathcliff.”

Holly burst out laughing. “Too true. All he’d need would be a frock coat and a ‘bunch of lace at his throat.’”

Angela stopped rubbing at a speck of dirt on the shoe she held and stared into space for a moment. “Wouldn’t he look beautiful dressed like that?” she said dreamily.

Holly took off her bonnet and dropped it on Angela’s vanity table. “You’ve got it bad, sweetheart,” she said quietly.

Angela put down one shoe and picked up the other. “I guess I have,” she answered.

“Do you really think it’s fair to continue to see Philip while you feel this way about Devlin?” Holly asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s fair anymore. All I can say is that Philip wants me and Devlin doesn’t.”

“He acts like he does.”

Angela shook her head sadly. “I misread those signs, too.”

Holly raised her eyes to the ceiling. “So what can we look forward to tonight? What will he do? Chainsmoke and stare daggers at Philip all evening?”

“Probably. I only hope that’s all he does.”

“I wouldn’t worry. He’ll glower but he’ll keep a low profile. He always tries to be inconspicuous. You know that.”

“I suppose you’re right. It won’t help to work myself into a snit before the first guest arrives.”

“Let me see that picture you were telling me about. I want to gauge how much of a project this hairdo is going to be.”

Angela got the book on Greek mythology from the top of her dresser and showed Holly the picture of Cassandra. The prophetess was depicted with her long red hair caught up in a topknot, Cretan style, and then cascading down her back in a fall of ringlets.

“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to manage this,” Holly said doubtfully. “Why didn’t you just go to Andre and show him this picture?”

Andre was the hair stylist who tended Angela’s hair on the rare occasions when she had it done professionally.