Fire And Ice Page 4

  She studied his black tie. “No.”

  “I’ll take care of you,” he said in a strange, soft tone that brought her eyes up to his involuntarily.

  She was caught in that deep brown web again and a dark sweetness filled her.

  “Come with me,” he murmured softly.

  She tried to speak, but her breath caught. He was hypnotizing her, he was…

  “I don’t have a choice…do I?” she whispered unsteadily.

  “No,” he murmured absently. His eyes dropped to her soft, parted lips. “I haven’t wanted a woman’s mouth so much since my souped-up Chevy days,” he said so that only she could hear him.

  “That I wouldn’t believe on a bet,” she said, trying to make light of it when her pulse was jumping like a frightened rabbit.

  “Wouldn’t you?” He moved a step closer and her eyes dilated wildly. She’d already had a taste of his strength and it scared her. She didn’t want to find out if that sensuous, faintly cruel mouth was as expert as it looked.

  “You’d hurt…” she said without thinking. She couldn’t think.

  His eyes flashed down at hers and there was a matching wildness in them. “God, yes, I would,” he muttered under his breath. “And you’d fight me like a wildcat, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded slowly, unable to break the silver thread that bound them together. “Tooth and nail.”

  “For the first few minutes,” he amended, letting his eyes drop slowly, boldly, over her body before they slid back up to meet her own. “After that…”

  She cleared her throat. “I have an appointment Friday….”

  “Break it,” he said curtly. “I meant what I said. If you back out, Jan doesn’t come, either.”

  She searched his dark eyes, confused, uncertain. “Will you at least listen to me if I come?”

  “Yes,” he said, and she knew he meant it.

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  His lifted his chin slightly. “I won’t promise more than I can deliver, Margie.”

  “I never thought you would,” she said with a smile.

  He studied her again, his gaze lingering on the bodice. “Maybe I was wrong about one thing,” he murmured.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The padded bra,” he whispered.

  She ground her teeth together to keep from slapping him, but the color in her cheeks was unpreventable.

  “You’re outrageous!” she told him.

  “Righteous indignation?” he asked mockingly. “Ruffled modesty? I thought you were a liberated woman.”

  “You make me feel about thirteen,” she slung at him, and then felt like sinking into the floor for admitting such a thing to such a man.

  “Do I really?” he taunted.

  “Good night, Mr. Van Dyne,” she muttered, turning.

  “No parting kiss?” he asked with dark insolence.

  “I’d bite you if you even tried,” she growled.

  One bushy eyebrow went up, along with a corner of his disciplined mouth. “What an intriguing thought. Where would you bite me?”

  She knew when she was defeated. Without another word, she left the three of them on the steps and went straight into the house.

  Three

  “As if I’d want to kiss him,” Margie muttered on her way up the stairs, oblivious to Jan’s amused face behind her.

  “Did he offer?” her sister asked.

  Margie ignored the question. “He’s arrogant and overbearing and simply maddening,” she grumbled. “And I’ve got to be out of my mind for agreeing to this trip.”

  “You’ll have a good time,” came the soft promise. “And you’ll be doing me the biggest favor you ever have.”

  Margie softened, turning at her bedroom door to smile at her sister. “I’m just pure marshmallow, and you know it.” She laughed. “Maybe I can find ways to avoid that big steamroller if I work at it. I’ll pack the typewriter and it will be an incentive for me to stay in my room and work like mad toward the deadline.”

  Jan looked guilty. “You don’t mind keeping your infamous pen name under wraps, do you?” she asked uncertainly. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do it without a good reason, and you must know I’m terribly proud of what you’ve accomplished. You’re talented, you’re famous…it’s just that Cannon is so horribly conservative.”

  “I don’t mind,” Margie said. “It will be kind of nice to just be a person for a change. Back when I was a reporter, I was a camera and a notepad. Now I’m a book jacket. Some people just don’t realize that under the glitter, I’m only an average person, doing a job I love. I’m nothing special.”

  “Oh yes, you are,” Jan said, and hugged her. “Very, very special.”

  Margie muffled a giggle. “Cannon doesn’t think so,” she said dryly. “I thought he was going to banish Andy and me to the washroom at that restaurant.”

  Jan giggled with her. “Andy’s full of fun, himself, and he does love to raise eyebrows. Even Cannon’s.”

  “Speaking of convention,” Margie muttered, “I think you may find that big brother isn’t the stuffed shirt you imagine he is. He told me himself that the conservative image is a deliberate ploy to throw people off the track.”

  “And you believe him?”

  The taller girl looked faintly troubled. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He’s … unpredictable. Tonight I really understood that old saying about having a tiger by the tail.”

  “You’re not afraid of him, are you?” Jan murmured with a smile in her voice.

  “Me?” Margie drew herself up like an insulted princess and tossed her shawl over one shoulder with a flourish. “I’ll have you know that I got top marks in my class for fending men off. When it comes to self-defense, I am almost without equal. I shall fight them on the land, I shall fight them on the sea, I shall…where are you going?”

  “Good night,” Jan called back, heading straight for her room.

  “But I was just getting to the good part!” Margie cried theatrically.

  “Put it in a book—I’ll read it,” Jan promised, and closed her door quickly.

  Margie turned and went into her bedroom with a smug grin.

  But it was a long time before she slept. Her dreams, when they came, were filled with Cannon Van Dyne. She sat straight up in bed, her body on fire, her breath coming unsteadily. Her lips tingled, the way they had when his finger had parted them, teased them. He might look like a staid business executive, but he knew what to do with a woman. She would bet that there was very little he didn’t know about feminine responses. And that was disquieting. She might become vulnerable to such an overwhelmingly masculine man, and she didn’t want to be taken over. She’d already felt her pulse flutter wildly when he touched her. She hated the thought that he could have any power over her at all.

  She was going to have to keep a safe distance from him when they got to Panama City. That would be her only hope. She couldn’t risk getting involved with another Larry. She liked the taste of freedom too much.

  * * *

  Margie dressed in a conservative white linen suit with a pale green blouse Friday morning, and laughed when Jan came downstairs in a mint green sundress.

  “Now I really feel overdressed,” Margie moaned. “And I’ll bet Andy will be wearing shorts, won’t he?”

  “No telling about Andy.” The younger woman grinned. “But you look very nice.”

  “So do you. Well, let’s double-check and make sure everything’s turned off and locked.” Margie and Jan had made all the arrangements for a two-week absence, canceling Margie’s appointments, notifying Jan’s boss and enlisting Mrs. James’s help to watch the house and take in the mail.

  By the time they’d gone over the top floor and walked back downstairs, a car was pulling up in the driveway. Margie’s heart began to cartwheel. She brushed back her loosened dark hair with a hand that almost trembled with anticipation. Surely it was the thought of the plane trip, not Cannon, causing this unusual nervousness!

&n
bsp; “They’re here!” Jan laughed, running for the door. Margie couldn’t remember a time in their lives when her younger sister had been so full of life and laughter. It was worth any sacrifice to see her stay that way.

  Jan threw open the door, and there was Andy, dressed in Bermuda shorts, a plain tan shirt and socks and sneakers. He bent and kissed Jan gently, slowly, before he raised his head to greet Margie.

  “I told you I was overdressed,” Margie sighed.

  “You look very elegant,” Andy observed critically.

  She struck a pose. “Do call Vogue and tell them I’m ready and willing to do their next cover, will you?”

  Jan and Andy giggled, but Cannon’s sudden appearance in the doorway was enough to end their merriment. He looked bone weary and not a little out of humor. He was wearing a safari suit that, on any other man, would have been pretentious. But Margie could actually picture him as the Great White Hunter in khaki tan, with a train of bearers lined up behind him and a rifle over one shoulder. An aura of adventure clung to him like cologne.

  “Are we going by Capetown on the way?” Margie couldn’t resist asking as Andy picked up the cases and led Jan out the door.

  Cannon stared at her, his eyes hot with some violent emotion.

  “Three hours and four cups of coffee from now, I might laugh at that,” he told her. “But right now, I just want to get going.”

  “Why, honey, never let it be said that I stood in the path of a busy man!” she drawled, grabbing her purse.

  He didn’t move, as she’d expected him to, and she barreled right into his big, solid body with an audible gasp.

  He held her by the shoulders, looking down at her with eyes that made her flush.

  “Drop the act,” he said quietly. “Be yourself, with me at least.”

  She couldn’t quite catch her breath. He made her feel funny—young and nervous. “It isn’t an act,” she managed shakily.

  His fingers tightened and she stiffened involuntarily. “Porcelain,” he murmured. “Just as beautiful and every bit as brittle. Come on, honey, I’ve been up half the night talking mergers, and I’m dead on my feet. Let’s go.”

  “You’re sure you’re up to flying?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not,” he admitted surprisingly. “That’s why I’ve had my own pilot sent out to fly us to Panama City. I’ve got to make half a dozen phone calls on the way, and even I can’t talk and fly at the same time.”

  She followed along behind him, almost running to keep up. “Jan, did you get my typewriter?” she called, interrupting a lazy conversation between Andy and Jan.

  “Sure did.” Jan grinned. “It’s in the trunk, with our bags.”

  “Do you need that hard-working lady writer image to impress people?” Cannon asked with a maddening, taunting smile.

  “I told you, I like to keep a few articles ahead.” She glanced up at him as he opened the door for her. “And look who’s making cracks about hard work. Do you ever slow down?”

  “In bed,” he admitted.

  She flushed and looked away quickly, aware of a quickening pulse.

  He laughed deep in his throat. “My, what an interesting mind you have. I meant, I do sleep.”

  She shifted restlessly. “It’s a lovely day for a trip!” she said brightly.

  * * *

  The Van Dyne summer home was located just a few miles outside Panama City, Florida. It was surrounded by a high, white stone wall, inside of which was a long and winding paved driveway lined with palm trees and blooming hibiscus. The house itself was also stone, spacious and venerable with mahogany doors and a curving staircase with mahogany banisters. The furniture had a West Indian look; the hall was floored with flagstone. The rest of the house was elegantly furnished and carpeted, with heavy draperies at the big windows and what-nots on shelves and tables—wickedly expensive little what-nots that most women would have given their eyeteeth for.

  Victorine Van Dyne fit into her surroundings perfectly. She was like the furnishings of her summer home—elegant, venerable and charming. She resembled both her sons. Her eyes were dark brown like Cannon’s, but her face was open and friendly, like Andy’s. She was very petite, with a delicate bone structure and a soft, short cloud of pure silver hair framing her ageless face.

  “I’ve heard so much about you both from Cannon and Andrew,” Victorine said with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “Different versions, you understand,” she added mischievously. “I had very little input from Cannon until early this week, when I got quite an earful. But I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Jan impulsively hugged the smaller woman after Cannon made the introductions, and Victorine returned the embrace with slight reserve. Her attention was on Margie.

  Margie smiled wickedly. “Despite what I’m sure you were told about me, I’m not a member of the world’s oldest profession.”

  Victorine grinned at her. “I was going to ask you how you enjoyed your work.” She laughed. “I guess I’d better ask what you do, first.”

  “She just stays at home and shocks the neighbors,” Cannon said over his shoulder as he disappeared up the stairs with several suitcases. Jan and Andy followed him up, trying hard not to break into laughter.

  “Now,” Victorine said when they were alone. “Suppose you tell me what’s been going on?”

  Margie did, sparing herself nothing. “One thing led to another, and after our first meeting he was convinced that I was a madam. After the second, he wanted to put me in a day-care center. Now, I think he might like to grind me up for sausage,” she added with a grin.

  “Beware, my girl,” the older woman warned with a laugh. “He’s never taken such a violent dislike to anyone at first sight before. It could be an omen.”

  Margie’s eyebrows arched. “Is that anything like an incantation?”

  Victorine eyed the younger woman. “Cannon said you were a widow.”

  “Yes, I am.” She lowered her eyes. “My husband died in a plane crash five years ago.”

  “I lost my own husband about that long ago,” Victorine sighed. “The loss was devastating not only to me, but to Cannon, because he inherited all the responsibility. Andrew does help, of course, but Cannon is the corporation.”

  “A man under pressure,” Margie commented.

  “Under a great deal of it, and he doesn’t spare himself. Somewhere along the way, my eldest forgot how to play. He lost his sense of humor, too. There was a difficult marriage, and an even more difficult divorce. It was a blessing that there were no children involved.” She glanced at Margie. “Did you…?”

  “No,” she said curtly, much more curtly than she meant to.

  Victorine laid a delicate hand on her forearm. “Not a happy marriage?” she asked softly.

  Margie shook her head, and for just an instant the mask slipped.

  The older woman, in that instant, seemed to see it all. She turned away. “Let’s sit down and get acquainted. I have angina pectoris, and I find it difficult to move around too much, although I try.” She looked angry for a second. “I’m protected to death, you know. Cannon has the employees spy on me.”

  Margie’s eyes brightened. “He what?”

  Victorine frowned as she sat down on the sofa beside Margie. “He has me spied on, and if I do things he and that idiotic doctor say I shouldn’t, he gets furious.”

  “You do have your trials, I can see that,” Margie said. “Having to live with him must be the biggest of all.”

  Victorine smiled. She was going to enjoy this young woman. And she had a strange feeling that Cannon might eventually share that view.

  * * *

  The days passed lazily, with Cannon usually off on business meetings. Jan and Margie settled in, enjoying the sun and sand, talking to Victorine, watching television and enjoying the French cook’s delicious fare. It was the kind of break Margie had needed for a long time, and she found herself relaxing, taking things easy. She worked on the book at a leisurely pace, mostly early in the morning so
she wouldn’t disturb the household.

  But always, she was aware of Cannon’s speculative gaze when he was in the house. He watched her the way a cat watches its prey, with a narrow, unblinking gaze that made her nervous.

  “Are you looking for warts?” she asked him on their third day at the beach house while waiting for the others to sit down to dinner.

  “Would I find any?” he asked lazily, leaning back in the big armchair that seemed to be his personal property.

  “Not where they show,” she mused.

  “Now you’ve intrigued me,” he replied, and his dark eyes did a slow, bold survey of her body. She was wearing a strappy little white dress and suddenly her body felt as if someone had stroked it.

  She wished she could give him the same kind of sensual appraisal, but she wouldn’t have dared. He was wearing a blue silk shirt, open halfway down the chest, with white slacks, and he looked good enough to star in any motion picture.

  “I’m having a group of men here tomorrow night for dinner and a business discussion,” he said out of the blue, pausing to light a cigarette and take a draw from it before he went on. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t hang from the chandelier or wear a backless gown.”

  “I don’t own a backless gown,” she informed him.

  One corner of his mouth curled up. “Not even to shock Mrs. James?” he taunted.

  “I have to draw the line somewhere,” she said defensively.

  He watched her hands pleat the wispy fabric of her skirt. “I like your hair loose like that,” he remarked, letting his eyes lift to the long, deliciously disheveled length of it. “It’s sexy.”

  She colored and all but jumped to her feet. “Shouldn’t we go on in?” she asked.

  He got up too, lazily, dangerously, and moved toward her like a jungle cat, with a grace of movement that was peculiarly his own.

  “You’re afraid of me,” he said, as he approached her. “Why?”

  She backed away with a laughing shrug. “Not afraid, just wary. You make me feel hemmed in sometimes.”