The Uneven Score (14 page)

“Ah, yes,” Paddie said, “I forgot about your bump.”

And she got up and went into the kitchen. Daniel glared at Whitney. “That woman is your friend?”

“I haven’t seen her in eight years.”

“And yet you were willing to risk breaking into my office on her behalf?”

And Harry’s, Whitney thought. “Women musicians have to stick together.”

“I could have had you arrested.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Maybe I should have! You realize, don’t you, that when you and I were at odds she would never have come forward to protect you?”

“I know,” Whitney said.

“And yet you protected her?”

“I kept my promises.”

“Knowing she wouldn’t have done the same for you?”

“I don’t judge people on the basis of what they’ll do for me,” she replied coolly.

Paddie returned and, with a profound sigh of satisfaction, settled into a wingback chair. “Much better,” she said. “Daniel, sit down and relax. What’s done is done.”

Whitney observed he was no longer Mr. Graham. Had she missed something along the way? Did Paddie actually consider this man a friend? Stranger things had happened in the life of Victoria Paderevsky, to be sure, but few more unexpected.

“I believe one of the people in this room tonight is the miserable scorpion who has been harassing me,” she explained calmly. “I knew they would come, of course.”

Daniel wasn’t letting anything slip by. “How?”

“I know my musicians.” She glanced up at Daniel, as if daring him to argue. He didn’t. “They were the same ones who came to see you this morning, were they not? I know you won’t answer. You are too much of a businessman and a gentleman. In your position, I would have handed me a list of all their names. In any case, I wanted to see what kind of reaction I would get. They all think I’m crazy anyway, don’t they?”

‘‘Apparently not without reason.”

“I am immune to your sarcasm, Daniel.”

“Well,” he said, “did you discover anything?”

“Lucas Washington has a perverse sense of humor.”

Daniel’s mouth twisted to one side, and with some surprise Whitney realized he was trying to keep from laughing. He was a man of abrupt and varied moods, but at least, she thought, one knew where one stood with him—sometimes all too clearly.

 Paddie didn’t notice his amusement. “Other than that,” she said gravely, “I learned nothing.”

“Victoria,” Whitney said, “whoever’s been harassing you knew he didn’t sic a rattlesnake on you.”

“That’s right,” Daniel said, recovered now. “What did you expect him to do? Stand up and say, ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it’?”

Daniel’s imitation of a sissy was remarkable. Whitney tried not to laugh.

 Paddie scoffed. “Of course not. But he is on the defensive now, isn’t he?”

Daniel shook his head in exasperation. “I think all your theatrics have gone for naught, Paddie.”

“Yes, well.” She shrugged and drained her glass of water. “We shall see.”

Whitney saw Paddie to the door. Outside the night was quiet and cool. Whitney breathed in the scent of the groves. “It’s beautiful here,” she said, sighing. “Even with all this going on, I can’t help but be glad I’m not in Schenectady right now.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with Daniel Graham, would it?” Paddie asked.

“I hardly know the man.”

“True,” Paddie said, getting into her car, “but you have always been sentimental. You cry at operas instead of analyzing the music. In operas, there is often love at first sight, is there not?”

“And tragic endings.”

 Paddie grinned; she almost looked attractive. “That is why real life is so wonderful.” She patted Whitney’s hand.

“We will find Harry, and we will end all this nonsense. Then this man of yours can romance you properly—if he can wait that long.”

“Victoria, he isn’t—”

“He is, Whitney,” Paddie interrupted. “And so are you.”

Whitney could think of nothing to say. Paddie promised there would be no more snakes, said she was glad Whitney had proved herself worthy of Harry Stagliatti’s seat in the orchestra by not fainting at the sight of a snake, and drove off.

At midnight Whitney was still unable to sleep. She was sitting up in bed doing deep-breathing exercises and trying not to think about all the things troubling her. Paddie. Harry. Daniel. She wanted to believe everything would be all right, but didn’t dare. She wanted Paddie to conduct. She wanted Harry to contact her or Paddie or someone in the orchestra and tell them what he was up to. What if something had happened to him? She didn’t think she could go on. He had to be all right.

And Daniel. He confused and excited her and occupied a place in her thoughts that no one else ever had, not really, not this way. She had known him little over a day. It was like an opera. And was he a Don Giovanni? A Faust? After all, what did she know about Daniel Graham? And how dare she let him seep into her consciousness, into her very being! Harry could be kidnapped or dead or dying and she was lusting after a man she hardly knew!

No, not lusting.

Yes, lusting. That was part of the problem. And yet it was more than lusting, and that was the other part of the problem.

The door to her bedroom silently opened.

She exhaled very, very slowly. Now what? After seeing Paddie off, she’d come inside and, finding the living room empty, had walked out onto the porch. Daniel had been standing on the edge of the lake, his silhouette tall and dark against the glistening water. Somehow he had seemed even more unapproachable than he had been earlier when he’d been so furious with Paddie. Whitney had wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling. She had wanted to go to him. Instead she had gone quietly back inside, taken a warm bath, and headed for bed. For a while she had listened, waiting, for his footsteps in the hall. But they never came, and she had tried to sleep.

Now she sat motionless, not knowing what to expect, or even if she should be afraid.

Then Daniel poked his head in through the crack in the door. Whitney breathed, relieved. She hadn’t realized how tensed and afraid she’d been.

“Did I scare you?” he said. “Sorry. I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

She smiled. “No such luck.”

“Are you hurting?”

“Not too badly, no. Just wired, mostly. I’m not used to being attacked. And I’m not used to going two days without practicing. Harry says after five days my lips’ll turn black and fall off.”

Daniel laughed softly as he entered the bedroom. A small lamp on the nightstand provided the only light. “They never have, have they?”

“1 wouldn’t know.”

“You mean you’ve never gone five days without practicing?”

“Not since I started taking horn seriously.”

He moved toward the bed. For such a big man, he was surprisingly lithe and lean, a man of physical action, yet of grace, too. She admired the fluidity of his movements and felt herself beginning to respond to him already. He sat on the edge of the bed. “What about vacations?” he asked.

Whitney was leaning against the cherry headboard. With each breath, she could feel her breasts rising and falling under her sturdy blue nightgown. Daniel had that kind of impact on her. She found herself wishing she had worn something sexier and more alluring than cotton broadcloth. Would be prefer frills? She checked her thoughts. They were discussing horn. “I bring along my horn,” she explained, wondering at the hoarse timbre of her voice and the subtle, poignant ache that was spreading through her, “and get in an hour a day, minimum.”

“What about sickness?”

“I’ve never been sick more than three days—at least not sick enough to miss practice.”

He smiled: a gentle, easy smile that made her body tense, not with fear or foreboding, but with a physical attraction that was so strong it was nearly palpable. Imagining his smile was one of the things that had driven off sleep. With her eyes shut, she could see the flash of his even teeth and the glint of amusement in his sea-green eyes. Even when he wasn’t near her, he was capable of stirring her emotions, and her body, in ways that made her long to be touched.

“You’re compulsive, aren’t you?” he drawled silkily, as though they were discussing something much more intimate than her practice schedule. “I suppose you have to be.”

He was sitting very close to her, but they weren’t touching. She thought it would be easier if they were. Less distracting, in a way. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be. Touching him wasn’t distracting. It simply blotted all other thoughts completely from her mind.

“Most musicians are,” she replied absently.

“So I’ve noticed.”

He smiled again. Whitney sat up straighter, her back flat against the headboard. She was too tired and shaken to trust herself completely. Her instincts, she thought, could be hopelessly inaccurate tonight. And yet they were telling her more loudly, more certainly, than they had ever told her anything before that this was a man she could trust. And trust not just with her life, but with her soul. He wouldn’t seize them. He wouldn’t take them from her and try to control them. Tonight with the warm spring breeze and the smell of flowers blowing in through the screens, with the shadows and the dim light softening the hard lines of his face, Daniel Graham seemed not at all threatening or domineering, but pensive and kind.

“Did you have a nice walk?” she asked, trying to divert her inappropriate thoughts.

“No. I kept thinking about you.”

She tried a laugh; it wasn’t very successful. “Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know.” He straightened up, his voice deepening, as if he’d suddenly decided he had to be less open. But there was a tenderness in his eyes that belied the gruffness of his words. “I didn’t come here to make love to you, Whitney.”

“So I assumed,” she said levelly, “since you thought I was asleep.”

“Whitney, Whitney.” He sighed, more irritated with himself now, she thought, than with her. “Whitney—you and Paddie are worried about Harry, aren’t you? I know you are. Damn it, I wish you two would—” He broke off, but when he resumed, his voice was steady. “No, that’s not fair, I know you won’t say, and I understand. I appreciate your loyalties. Whitney, just remember: I have my loyalties, too.”

“What are you saying?” she asked sharply, grabbing his arm. “Daniel, has something happened to Harry? Do you know—”

“Please, Whitney, don’t.” His eyes were tender, pleading, and yet, under her fingertips, his arm was tensed. “All I’m saying is that I know you haven’t told me everything and I’m assuming you know I haven’t told you everything.”

Harry, she  thought: Daniel knew she hadn’t told him everything about Harry.

“But, Daniel—”

“Frustrating, isn’t it, when someone won’t talk?” He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, and held it firmly in his. Then he smiled cheerfully, changing his mood entirely, and she had to admire his willpower. “Did you hear the phone ring?”

Whitney couldn’t shift moods that easily, but she nodded. Just after she’d gone to bed she’d heard the telephone.

“That was my mother.”

“Ah, the gracious Rebecca Graham. She doesn’t have a cottage somewhere amid the groves, too, does she?”

He grinned. “Hardly, darlin’. My parents have the big house down at the groves south of here; This is my Uncle Jesse’s old place.”

The big house? “Oh.”

“My charming mother called to tell me she thinks you’re adorable.”

That and the play of his fingertips in her palm were just the distractions Whitney needed. She grimaced at his mother’s comment, but relished the feel of his warm hand on hers. “And what did you say?”

“I said I quite agreed.”

“You were just joking, I hope.”

He laughed. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to be adorable?”

“When I was five, yes.”

“At twenty-nine, however, one prefers to be scintillating and sexy and captivating, right?”

“Absolutely.” She gave him her most fetching smile, hoping she didn’t look adorable.

“Good, because those are all on the list of my first impressions of Whitney McCallie.” He grinned and added, “Along with adorable, of course.”

“Liar,” she said, teasing, relaxing. “You thought I was a thief, remember?”

“Mmm. A scintillating, sexy, captivating, adorable thief in sweat pants and a Buffalo Sabres shirt.” He let go of her hand and ran two fingers up her bare forearm. “And pink ballet slippers.”

His hip touched her thigh through the covers, sending waves of warmth undulating through her. His two fingers trailed across the cotton flannel blanket on her lap and paused, slowly, absently drawing little circles on her stomach.

“I come at you waving a gun and doing my damnedest to intimidate the hell out of you and all I get are lies and indignation,” he said quietly. “And here I am now, dying to kiss you, and you’re nervous—”

“I am not nervous” she said.

He grinned broadly. “Good.”

The hand on her stomach eased down to her side, his palm resting on the bed, and he leaned over her, bringing his face flush to hers. Her back slid down some from the headboard. Maintaining a rigid posture with him this close was more than she could manage. And she didn’t want to. She wasn’t nervous, not with him. She touched his cheek.

“Lovely Whitney,” he said, and kissed her.

Purposefully, she slid farther down from the headboard, into his arms. Her lips parted, her tongue circling his, tasting his mouth, and she could feel the excitement growing in him as it was in her. With her body she told him this was what she wanted, what she had been waiting for, however vaguely and unknowingly.

“Darlin’,” he drawled lazily, “if I knew for sure it wouldn’t put you in the hospital, there’s no way you could get rid of me tonight.”

“I don’t want to get rid of you,” she said.

“I know, love, but I’m an honorable Southern gentleman, and we don’t ‘force’ ourselves on injured women.” He grinned wickedly. “No matter how much they want us to— and, of course, no matter how much we want to.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. The doctor said you need to stay calm, and, darlin’, a night with me will be anything but calm.” He leaned over once more, dragging his tongue erotically across her mouth, tantalizing her again. “But we will have that night, Whitney. I promise you that.”