Love, Come to Me(75)

To all the eyes that observed the handsome couple, their conversation was circumspect, but had it been heard, it would have caused more than one pair of ears to burn. Lucy crooned to Heath in a faked Southern drawl, making wicked observations, whispering bits of nonsense and entertaining him with veiled hints about the black silk pantalets she assured him she was wearing.

“You don’t even own black silk pantalets,” Heath said, his eyes dancing with amusement at her antics.

“I most certainly do. I had them made for me. You said you didn’t like plain old white. And I have on a matching corset—”

“I almost believe you.”

“You’ll believe me later,” she purred, and he laughed outright.

“What’s gotten into you tonight?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve finally decided something.”

“Oh? What have you decided?”

“Something private. I can’t tell you.”

“Ah. Then your decision must involve me, or you wouldn’t keep it a secret.”

“In every way,” she said, and smiled at him in a way that made his breath catch.

Chapter 9

Humming a Christmas carol, Lucy struggled with an armload of holly and balanced some of it on top of the banister. “Bess,” she said to the maid who hovered near the top of the stairs, “if you can just fasten it at the top with one of those big red bows . . . yes, and we’ll do it like that all the way down . . .”

“Don’t fall backwards,” Bess cautioned, too concerned about Lucy’s precarious balance on the edge of the steps to pay close attention to the decorations.

“Of course I won’t,” Lucy said encouragingly. “Oh, that bow looks just right.”

“You’re walking backwards.”

“I won’t fall. I’ve got my hand on the railing.”

“Mrs. Rayne, why don’t I drape the holly and you can tie the bows?”

“Bess, there’s no need to worry.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the slam of the front door, and they both looked down the stairs. Heath shook the snow off his knee-length overcoat and sailed his brown woolen hat into the corner with a vicious flick of his wrist. As he looked up and saw his audience poised on the staircase, he gave a curt nod that barely passed for a greeting.

“Well,” Lucy said, “it looks as if your Christmas spirit has undergone a beating.”

Heath said something under his breath and went up the stairs, passing her without another word. He paused as he neared Bess, who shrank away from him and regarded him with round gray eyes. “I want a bottle of Old Forester and a glass,” he snapped. “Now.”

The maid’s mouth quivered, and she fled downstairs.

“Heath, what is the matter?” Lucy demanded, upset and annoyed by his brusque manner. “Whatever’s wrong, there’s no need to ignore me and frighten the . . . Heath, where are you going?” She followed him to the bedroom, unable to imagine what had happened to put him in such a mood. “Did you have trouble at the paper today?”

He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

“You’re home early—”

“I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to answer questions. Where is that maid? Did you manage to hire anyone who doesn’t drag his or her feet?”

“Did you have an argument with Damon?” Lucy asked patiently, knowing that he did want to talk, or he wouldn’t have put on such a performance when he came in. Heath’s door slamming was always an announcement that a conversation was in order.

“Damon,” Heath said in tones of purest disgust, “Damned right I had an argument with him.”

“You don’t have to use that language,” she reproved.

“I thought he understood what I was trying to do. But today I realized he’s not the man I thought he was. After months of working on the same side, for the same purpose, he stood in that office, talking like a stranger—get the door, she’s here with the whiskey.”

“Would you mind talking to me about this first?” Her only answer was a steady blue-green glare. Lucy sighed and went to the door. “Thank you, Bess.”

“Mrs. Rayne . . . ,” the maid whispered, regarding Heath’s tall, lithe form as he paced back and forth like an agitated panther, “are you going to be all right? Should I—”

“Everything’s just fine,” Lucy said, pasting on a reassuring smile, taking the small silver tray from the other woman. “Why don’t you finish the decorations while Mr. Rayne and I have our discussion?” As Bess nodded apprehensively, Lucy closed the door with her foot and set the tray down on her dressing table. “She’s only been working here a week, Heath. She’s not used to your temper, and it frightens her, so if you’d try to control—”

“She’d better learn to get used to it, or she can go to work for someone else.” Heath poured himself a drink and interrupted his sneer long enough to take a healthy swallow.

“What has Damon done to make you so angry?”

“Damon doesn’t give a damn one way or another about the issues we’re struggling with. It’s all a mental exercise with him. He looks at something, picks out the points for and against it, and he goes with the side that has the highest score. Right and wrong—just a mathematical equation to him. I’ll be damned if I can work with that!”