Sanctuary (5 page)

There were three wide windows, framed only by curved and carved wood trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals, though, as far as she knew, the Hathaways rarely ate as a family. The floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy work for Brian.

Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique kitchen tools. She imagined he thought of them as practical rather than homey, but they warmed the room.

He'd left the old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for gathering, for lingering. She liked it in the winter when he lighted a fire there and the scent of wood burning mixed pleasurably with that of spicy stews or soups bubbling.

To her, the huge commercial range looked like something that required an engineering degree to operate. Then again, her idea of cooking was taking a package from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave.

“I love this room,” she said. He was whipping something in a large blue bowl and only grunted. Taking that as a response, Kirby slid off the stool to help herself to a second cup of coffee. She leaned in, just brushing his arm, and grinned at the batter in the bowl. “Waffles?”

He shifted slightly. Her scent was in his way. “That was what you wanted, wasn't it?”

“Yeah.” Lifting her cup, she smiled at him over the rim. “It's nice to get what you want. Don't you think?”

She had the damnedest eyes, he thought. He'd believed in mermaids as a child. All of them had had eyes like Kirby's. “It's easy enough to get it if all you want is waffles.”

He stepped back, around her, and took a waffle iron out of a lower cabinet. After he'd plugged it in, he turned, and bumped into her. Automatically he lifted a hand to her arm to steady her. And left it there.

“You're underfoot.”

She eased forward, just a little, pleased by the quick flutter in her stomach. “I thought I could help.”

“With what?”

She smiled, let her gaze wander down to his mouth, then back. “With whatever.” What the hell, she thought, and laid her free hand on his chest. “Need anything?”

His blood began to pump faster. His fingers tightened on her arm before he could prevent it. He thought about it, oh, he thought about it. What would it be like to push her back against the counter and take what she kept insisting on putting under his nose?

That would wipe the smirk off her face.

“You're in my way, Kirby.”

He had yet to let her go. That, she thought, was definite progress. Beneath her hand his heartbeat was accelerated. “I've been in your way the best part of a year, Brian. When are you going to do something about it?”

She saw his eyes flicker before they narrowed. Her breathing took on an anticipatory hitch.
Finally
, she thought and leaned toward him.

He dropped her arm and stepped back, the move so unexpected and abrupt that this time she did nearly stumble. “Drink your coffee,” he said. “I've got work to do here.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing that he'd pushed one of her buttons for a change. The smirk was gone, all right. Her delicate brows were knit, and under them her eyes had gone dark and hot.

“Damn it, Brian. What's the problem?”

Deftly, he ladled batter onto the heated waffle iron. “I don't have a problem.” He slanted a look at her as he closed the lid. Her color was up and her mouth was thinned. Spitting mad, he thought. Good.

“What do I have to do?” She slammed her coffee cup down, sloshing the hot liquid onto his spotless counter. “Do I have to stroll in here naked?”

His lips twitched. “Well, now, that's a thought, isn't it? I could raise the rates around here after that.” He cocked his head. “That is, if you look good naked.”

“I look
great
naked, and I've given you numerous opportunities to find that out for yourself.”

“I guess I like to make my own opportunities.” He opened the refrigerator. “You want eggs with those waffles?”

Kirby clenched her fists, reminded herself that she'd taken a vow to heal, not harm, then spun on her heel. “Oh, stuff your waffles,” she muttered and stalked out the back door.

Brian waited until he heard the door slam before he grinned. He figured he had come out on top of that little tussle of wills and decided to treat himself to her waffles. He was just flipping them onto a plate when the door swung open.

Lexy posed for a moment, which both she and Brian knew was out of habit rather than an attempt to impress her brother. Her hair was a tousled mass of spiraling curls that flowed over her shoulders in her current favorite shade, Renaissance Red.

She liked the Titian influence and considered it an improvement over the Bombshell Blonde she'd worn the last few years. That was, she'd discovered, a bitch to maintain.

The color was only a few shades lighter and brighter than what God had given her, and it suited her skin tones, which were milky with a hint of rose beneath. She'd inherited her father's changeable hazel eyes. This morning they were heavy, the color of cloudy seas, and already carefully accented with mascara and liner.

“Waffles,” she said. Her voice was a feline purr she'd practiced religiously and made her own. “Yum.”

Unimpressed, Brian cut the first bite as he stood, and shoveled it into his mouth. “Mine.”

Lexy tossed back her gypsy mane of hair, strolled over to the breakfast bar and pouted prettily. She fluttered her lashes and smiled when Brian set the plate in front of her. “Thanks, sweetie.” She laid a hand on his cheek and kissed the other.

Lexy had the very un-Hathaway-like habit of touching, kissing, hugging. Brian remembered that after their mother had left, Lexy had been like a puppy, always leaping into someone's arms, looking for a snuggle. Hell, he thought, she'd only been four. He gave her hair a tug and handed her the syrup.

“Anyone else up?”

“Mmm. The couple in the blue room are stirring. Cousin Kate was in the shower.”

“I thought you were handling the breakfast shift this morning.”

“I am,” she told him with her mouth full.

He lifted a brow, skimmed his gaze over her short, thin, wildly patterned robe. “Is that your new waitress uniform?”

She crossed long legs and slipped another bite of waffle between her lips. “Like it?”

“You'll be able to retire on the tips.”

“Yeah.” She gave a half laugh and pushed at the waffles on her plate. “That's been my lifelong dream—serving food to strangers and clearing away their dirty plates, saving the pocket change they give me so I can retire in splendor.”

“We all have our little fantasies,” Brian said lightly and set a cup of coffee, loaded with cream and sugar, beside her. He understood her bitterness and disappointment, even if he didn't agree with it. Because he loved her, he cocked his head and said, “Want to hear mine?”

“Probably has something to do with winning the Betty Crocker recipe contest.”

“Hey, it could happen.”

“I was going to be somebody, Bri.”

“You are somebody. Alexa Hathaway, Island Princess.”

She rolled her eyes before she picked up her coffee. “I didn't last a year in New York. Not a damn year.”

“Who wants to?” The very idea gave him the creeps. Crowded streets, crowded smells, crowded air.

“It's a little tough to be an actress on Desire.”

“Honey, you ask me, you're doing a hell of a job of it. And if you're going to sulk, take the waffles up to your room. You're spoiling my mood.”

“It's easy for you.” She shoved the waffles away. Brian nabbed the plate before it slid off the counter. “You've got what you want. Living in nowhere day after day, year after year. Doing the same thing over and over again. Daddy's practically given the house over to you so he can tromp around the island all day to make sure nobody moves so much as one grain of his precious sand.”

She pushed herself up from the stool, flung out her arms. “And Jo's got what she wants. Big-fucking-deal photographer, traveling all over the world to snap her pictures. But what do I have? Just what do I have? A pathetic résumé with a couple of commercials, a handful of walk-ons, and a lead in a three-act play that closed in Pittsburgh on opening night. Now I'm stuck here again, waiting tables, changing other people's sheets. And I hate it.”

He waited a moment, then applauded. “Hell of a speech, Lex. And you know just what words to punch. You might want to work on the staging, though. The gestures lean toward grandiose.”

Her lips trembled, then firmed. “Damn you, Bri.” She jerked her chin up before stalking out.

Brian picked up her fork. Looked like he was two for two that morning, he thought, and decided to finish off her breakfast as well.

 

 

WITHIN an hour Lexy was all smiles and southern sugared charm. She was a skilled waitress—which had saved her from total poverty during her stint in New York—and served her tables with every appearance of pleasure and unhurried grace.

She wore a trim skirt just short enough to irritate Brian, which had been her intention, and a cap-sleeved sweater that she thought showed off her figure to best advantage. She had a good one and worked hard to keep it that way.

It was a tool of the trade whether waitressing or acting. As was her quick, sunny smile.

“Why don't I warm that coffee up for you, Mr. Benson? How's your omelette? Brian's an absolute wonder in the kitchen, isn't he?”

Since Mr. Benson seemed so appreciative of her breasts, she leaned over a bit further to give him full bang for his buck before moving to the next table.

“You're leaving us today, aren't you?” She beamed at the newlyweds cuddling at a corner table. “I hope y'all come back and see us again.”

She sailed through the room, gauging when a customer wanted to chat, when another wanted to be left alone. As usual on a weekday morning, business was light and she had plenty of opportunity to play the room.

What she wanted to play was packed houses, those grand theaters of New York. Instead, she thought, keeping that summer-sun smile firmly in place, she was cast in the role of waitress in a house that never changed, on an island that never changed.

It had all been the same for hundreds of years, she thought. Lexy wasn't a woman who appreciated history. As far as she was concerned, the past was boring and as tediously carved in stone as Desire and its scattering of families.

Pendletons married Fitzsimmonses or Brodies or Verdons. The island's Main Four. Occasionally one of the sons or daughters took a detour and married a mainlander. Some even moved away, but almost invariably they remained, living in the same cottages generation after generation, sprinkling a few more names among the permanent residents.

It was all so ... predictable, she thought, as she flipped her order pad brightly and beamed down at her next table.

Her mother had married a mainlander, and now the Hathaways reigned over Sanctuary. It was the Hathaways who had lived there, worked there, sweated time and blood over the keeping of the house and the protection of the island for more than thirty years now.

But Sanctuary still was, and always would be, the Pendleton house, high on the hill.

And there seemed to be no escaping from it.

She stuffed tips into her pocket and carried dirty plates away. The minute she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes went frigid. She shed her charm like a snake sheds its skin. It only infuriated her more that Brian was impervious to the cold shoulder she jammed in his face.

She dumped the dishes, snagged the fresh pot of coffee, then swung back into the dining room.

For two hours she served and cleared and replaced setups—and dreamed of where she wanted to be.

Broadway. She'd been so sure she could make it. Everyone had told her she had a natural talent. Of course, that was before she went to New York and found herself up against hundreds of other young women who'd been told the same thing.

She wanted to be a serious actress, not some airheaded bimbo who posed for lingerie ads and billed herself as an actress-model. She'd fully expected to start at the top. After all, she had brains and looks and talent.

Her first sight of Manhattan had filled her with a sense of purpose and energy. It was as if it had been waiting for her, she thought, as she calculated the tab for table six. All those people, and that noise and vitality. And, oh, the stores with those gorgeous clothes, the sophisticated restaurants, and the overwhelming sense that everyone had something to do, somewhere to go in a hurry.

She had something to do and somewhere to go too.

Of course, she'd rented an apartment that had cost far too much. But she hadn't been willing to settle for some cramped little room. She treated herself to new clothes at Bendel's, and a full day at Elizabeth Arden. That ate a large chunk out of her budget, but she considered it an investment. She wanted to look her best when she answered casting calls.

Her first month was one rude awakening after another. She'd never expected so much competition, or such desperation on the faces of those who lined up with her to audition for part after part.

And she did get a few offers—but most of them involved her auditioning on her back. She had too much pride and too much self-confidence for that.

Now that pride and self-confidence and, she was forced to admit, her own naïveté, had brought her full circle.

But it was only temporary, Lexy reminded herself. In a little less than a year she would turn twenty-five and then she'd come into her inheritance. What there was of it. She was going to take it back to New York, and this time she'd be smarter, more cautious, and more clever.