Night Whispers (29 page)

She walked beside him down the terrace steps, her hands clasped behind her back, sandals dangling from her fingers. Her head was bent as if she was lost in thought, and Noah began to reconsider the last hours through her eyes… In actuality, he'd behaved like an oversexed, overeager, inexperienced sixteen-year-old necking and petting in the backyard without sense enough or courtesy enough to take her somewhere where they'd have privacy and comfort. He was embarrassed about his behavior; he was embarrassed because he had something to be embarrassed
about
…

As they neared a stand of palm trees at the rear of the lawn, Noah said flatly, "I'm sorry about all that. I shouldn't have let it go on so long or get so far. I practically molested you on a damned lawn chair."

Sloan's heart soared at the discovery she wasn't the only one feeling uncertain and embarrassed. "A lawn chair?" she repeated thoughtfully; then she raised laughing eyes to his. "Molested? Is
that
what you were doing?"

Stifling a shout of laughter, Noah pulled her into his arms.

She looked at him teasingly, and rested her hands on his chest "My memory must be hazy, but—"

"I wouldn't want your memory to be hazy," Noah whispered, already bending his head. "I did this—" He brushed a kiss against her temple. "And this—" He trailed his lips to her ear and kissed it, smiling to himself when she shivered and pressed closer to him. "And I did this…" Her eyes closed and he put a light kiss on each lid before he dragged his mouth across her cheek to her lips. "And this—" He parted her lips with his and kissed her with a melting hunger, slowly exploring her mouth with his tongue, drawing her tighter to his hardening body, but when she leaned into him and began kissing him back, Noah lost his head for the second time that night. He backed her against a tree, caught her hands in both of his, and pinned them near her head while he deepened the kiss and pressed himself against her.

His tongue ravaged her mouth, his body moved slowly against hers, and her breasts swelled invitingly against his chest. He loosened his grip on one of her hands and slid his palm down her soft skin at her throat to her breast, brushing it with his knuckles and then covering it possessively. Her free hand curved round his nape, her body arched to his, and he fumbled with the jeweled clip at her nape that held the bodice of her dress up. A split second before he released it, he realized what he was doing and managed to check the impulse.

Struggling for control, he tore his mouth from hers and stared down at her moonlit face. "This is insanity," he whispered hoarsely; then he slowly lowered his head and buried his lips in hers again.

«
^
»

"L
ate night?" Paris asked cheerfully, perching on the side of Sloan's bed, already dressed for the day.

Sloan rolled over onto her back. "Very late," she said with a sleepy smile, thinking of Noah. "What time is it?"

"Ten-thirty."

"That late!"

Paris nodded. "It's lucky I remembered to tell Dishler not to turn on the security system when he went to bed. Otherwise, you'd have tripped the alarm when you walked past the infrared beams at the edge of the yard by the beach."

Sloan's eyes widened. She hadn't given a thought to setting off the house's security system last night. In fact, she hadn't given a thought to how she was going to get inside until she was reaching for the back door and found it unlocked. She could imagine how thrilled Carter would have been if the house sirens had gone off, the lights had all gone on, and he'd got up to discover she'd been with Noah.

"I'll get you a house key and a gate opener this morning. There's a keypad at the gates, and you can turn the alarm system off there by entering a security code. If you don't, you'll trip the alarm when you drive past the first set of infrared beams. They surround the property on all sides, so there's no way to sneak past them."

She told Sloan what the alarm code was, and Sloan nodded, but she didn't want Paris to think she normally behaved as she had last night, or that she intended to continue. "I don't intend to make a habit out of… that," she said awkwardly, levering herself into a sitting position.

"Really?" Paris teased. "Well, 'that' has already telephoned this morning to make arrangements for tonight."

"He did?" Sloan asked, unable to hide her happy smile.

"Yes, and the four of us are having dinner tonight," she said, sounding girlishly delighted about the plans. "The dress is formal, black tie, but the destination is unknown. Noah's driver will pick us up just before sunset. That's about all he would tell me."

Sloan drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "What about you—did you have a good time last night?"

Paris nodded. "Paul makes me laugh, and he's comfortable to be with, but he said the strangest thing to me while we were dancing."

"What did he say?" Sloan asked, enjoying the cozy sisterly discussion of men.

"He said I intrigued him because I have so many layers. I—I'm not certain he meant it as a compliment."

"How could he mean it as anything else?" said Sloan so emphatically and loyally that they both laughed, but Paris's next statement made Sloan's smile fade.

"The interesting thing is," Paris continued, "I think Paul is the one with a lot of layers, don't you?"

"I… don't know."

I'm pretty certain I'm right. I notice tiny little things about people that other people overlook. Father always says I can spot a phony across the room."

"Except for Henry," Sloan pointed out swiftly, referring to Paris's dishonest fiancé.

"True," Paris admitted with a wry smile. "And I didn't mean to imply that I think Paul is a phony, because I don't—not at all."

Sloan wasn't completely convinced Paris didn't think that. Torn between trying to change the subject or open it up further, Sloan reluctantly chose the latter. "What do you notice about Paul that seems unusual?"

"For one thing, men always like to talk about themselves, but Paul doesn't. What's more, he's so good at asking questions, and so attentive when you answer, that you never quite realize he's done all the listening and you've done all the talking. Now, if he were shy, I'd understand that, but he isn't shy at all. And that's another thing I find kind of unusual…"

"What do you mean?" Sloan said a little weakly.

"I mean he's not the least bit intimidated by anyone he's met, not even Father, who always intimidates younger men who aren't as—well—successful as he is."

"I'm not intimidated by him," Sloan pointed out.

"No, but men judge themselves on their accomplishments and wealth, and we don't."

She was so direct and perceptive that Sloan was having a hard time equating this Paris with the reticent sister she'd come to know.

"There's one more thing. Paul is in the insurance business, and Father has been grumbling about the cost of the group insurance policies for his employees at the bank. Yet, when I gave Paul an opening with Father to talk about selling us one of their group plans, Paul didn't take advantage of it."

"Maybe he thought it would be bad manners to try to sell insurance to his host."

"It wouldn't have been, because I brought it up, not Paul."

"Maybe Paul was embarrassed that you did."

"I don't think Paul embarrasses very easily."

Sloan was making rapid-fire mental notes to tell Paul to start talking about himself and start selling insurance. To Paris she said something completely honest. "I don't understand men very well, so you're asking the wrong person. I can say that Paul is an honest, dependable man, probably even a gallant one."

Paris nodded sagely. "That's my impression of him, too."

Smiling, she stood up, her thoughts shifting to the day ahead. "You'd better get up and get dressed. I thought we'd go sightseeing and do some shopping. Paul's going to stay here and laze around."

"What about a tuxedo for Paul tonight?" Sloan asked as she pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"I asked him, and he said he borrowed a tuxedo from a friend and brought it with him—just in case he needed it here."

Sloan hurried through her shower and got dressed quickly so that she'd have time to call her mother before she left. Because she'd overslept that morning, she was going to have to call her mother at the shop, which meant it was going to be difficult for Kimberly to talk. She sat down on the side of the bed and took her credit card out of her purse.

Propping the telephone on her shoulder, Sloan placed the credit card call and braced herself for a skirmish with the owner of the shop, Lydia Collins, who had the management style of a guard on a prison chain gang.

Although Sloan rarely called her mother there, Lydia invariably behaved as if a personal call were grounds for dismissing her best employee.

"Lydia," Sloan said when the shop owner answered the phone, "this is Sloan, and I'm calling from Palm Beach—"

Lydia's professional friendliness abruptly dissolved into irritation. "Your mother is busy right now with a customer, Sloan."

Kimberly was always busy with customers because they loved her and preferred to wait for her to help them. "I understand, but I need to talk to her for just a minute."

"Oh, very well!"

She smacked the phone down on the counter with enough force to make Sloan wince, but a moment later, Kimberly's warm, excited voice made Sloan smile.

"Darling, I'm so glad to hear from you. How is everything there?"

Sloan assured her that her father and great-grandmother were treating her very well and that they seemed very nice. She saved the news about Paris for last, and as soon as she brought up Paris's name, Sloan noticed that her mother grew very still, very silent. She told her everything she could about Paris, then she finished by saying, "You're going to love her, and she's going to love you. She wants to come to Bell Harbor very soon." Finished, Sloan waited for her mother to comment, but she said nothing. "Mom, are you there?"

"Yes," her mother whispered brokenly, and Sloan realized she was crying.

Sloan's heart ached as she realized how hard her mother must have worked all these years to pretend she'd adjusted to giving up Paris long ago. Now the mere possibility of a reunion with that same daughter was making Kimberly cry. Sloan couldn't even remember her mother crying before, and she felt tears spring to her own eyes. "She reminds me so much of you," Sloan said softly. "And she loves clothes, too—she designs them." In the background, Lydia's strident voice called Kimberly's name. "It sounds like you'd better go," Sloan said. "I'll call you again in a few days."

"Yes, please."

"Bye."

"Wait—" Kimberly said urgently. "Do you—do you think it would be all right if I send Paris my love?"

Sloan blinked back tears. "Yes, I know it will. I'll tell her."

«
^
»

E
dith was seated in her favorite chair in her bedroom, wearing another somber black dress, but with a large ruby and diamond brooch pinned to the bodice. Sloan wondered if she had anything brighter to wear, even a scarf.

"Great-grandmother," Paris said, pressing a kiss to the elderly woman's forehead. "You said you wanted to see Sloan before we leave."

"I would like to speak with her privately, if you don't mind, Paris."

Paris looked startled, but she nodded and left.

Sloan hadn't quite settled into the chair across from Edith before the old woman said pointedly, "What were you thinking a moment ago?"

Sloan started guiltily. "I was wondering if you would wear a colored scarf if I bought you one today."

Her white brows shot up. "You do not approve of my taste in clothing?"

"No, I didn't mean that at all."

"Do not add dishonesty to impertinence. That is exactly what you meant."

Trapped, Sloan bit back a smile. "My mother always says that bright colors are uplifting."

"You think I need to be uplifted, is that it?"

"Not exactly. It's just that you have lovely eyes, and I thought a blue scarf—"

"Now you are resorting to flattery. All of your vices are coming out into the open today," the old lady interrupted, but with a gruff smile. "As it happens, our minds are working along the same direction." She glanced at the ceiling, as if that indicated the direction she was referring to.

Sloan followed her gaze, then looked at her in bewilderment. "What direction?"

"Up. I assume that when I am gone, I will be ascending, not descending, don't you agree?"

She was talking about dying, Sloan realized, and her smile faded. "I'd rather not think about it."

At that, Edith became brisk and businesslike. "Death is a fact of life. I am ninety-five years old; therefore, I am staring the fact in the face. However, that is not to the point. I am going to be perfectly blunt with you, and I do not wish for any sort of emotional outburst…"