Beckett's Convenient Bride (9 page)

Carson nodded.

“Thought so.” His sour expression spoke volumes. And without another word, the old gent wheeled and left.

Both amused and irritated, Carson remained for several minutes between the entrance hall door and a Kentucky Derby-sized flower arrangement, watching as well-dressed and obviously well-heeled guests merged and broke apart to circulate, only to merge and circulate again. Aside from one or two curious glances, few paid him any attention, which suited him just fine.

Although he wasn't exactly dressed for it, Carson felt comfortable enough. His own family no longer did much entertaining, but he'd attended his share of such events back when his uncle Coley had been active in politics.

He nodded to the few people who offered him tentative smiles. They were obviously trying to place him, trying to figure out if he was someone important. Probably figured if he was confident enough to show up tieless at what was not quite a black-tie affair, but almost, then he must be someone important.

From time to time he caught sight of Kit, usually with a tall, well-dressed guy in tow. The guy reminded him of an actor whose name he couldn't recall. Once she'd given him a little finger wave, her expression one of silent commiseration. At a guess, he'd say she was having about as much fun as he was. Better than a dental appointment, but not much.

Who the hell was the guy who kept following her
around, hovering over her like an Armani-clad guardian angel?

Leaning against the only spot on the wall that wasn't covered by furniture, flowers or a gilt-framed portrait of some grim-faced ancestor, Carson sized up the crowd. Roughly three-quarters of them he figured for lawyers—well-dressed, well-schooled, a few of them already well lubricated. Among the remainder were probably a few politicians, as they usually stemmed from the same source. Spouses, naturally, all monotonously suitably dressed, with pearls and black crepe predominating. Now and then a red dress, but nothing even close to that horror Kit was wearing.

God love her, she was something else.

For the third time since they'd arrived, Carson checked his watch. Seventeen minutes. Twenty was his minimum, forty his maximum, but then, this was Kit's gig, not his. He braced his feet apart and continued to take in the scene before him as if it were a crime scene he was trying to get a read on. Old habits died hard.

He was beginning to get a fix on the enigma that was Kit Dixon. The judge had obviously disapproved of her mother—in which case, loyalty alone might have forced Kit to strike out on her own after both parents had died.

What about her father, the judge's son? Where did he fit in? Give the man some credit; he'd chosen to marry Elizabeth Chandler, hadn't he? Carson was biased toward the Chandlers, if only for what they'd done to jump-start the Becketts after the war. Then, too, he thought a lot of Lance's wife, who'd been born a Chandler.

He was tempted to ask Kit about her parents—that is, he might if he were going to be here long enough. She might even give him an answer. Then again, she might give him a response straight out of
Star Wars
or some
Disney epic. Whoever she was—whatever drove her, Kit Dixon lived in a unique universe all her own.

Actually, the dress wasn't all that bad, now that he was used to it. Earlier that evening, she'd emerged from her bedroom about the same time he'd opened the bathroom door. He'd still been trying to brush a few wrinkles out of his best khakis and wishing he'd thought to bring along another pair of shoes.

He distinctly remembered gaping. The coat hanger hadn't done justice to the dress. Hubcap-sized blossoms and all, it was…something else. Sleeveless, cut straight across her collarbone, it skimmed her body, clinging to a few points of interest along the way, like breasts and hipbones, to swirl around her ankles.

Her ankles. Delicate didn't begin to describe them. If Occupational Safety and Health Administration ever got a look at those shoes she was almost wearing—four-inch heels, a paper-thin sole and a single narrow band across the toes—she'd be in real trouble.

Even thinking about her, his gaze unconsciously homed in on her location across the crowded room. She was moving. He'd noticed that about her before—that even when she was standing still, some part of her body was always moving. Shoulders, hands—a tapping foot.

Was she as impatient with this whole tea party as he was?

At the moment she was talking to a rake-thin blonde in a black dress whose ankles, incidentally, were almost as fine. Without taking time to think, Carson levered his way from the wall that had been supporting him and headed across the room.

“'scuse me. Oops, sorry.” He was halfway there before he noticed the well-dressed Ralph Fiennes type standing a few feet away, but clearly a part of the small group. Kit
happened to look up and catch his eye. Either he was crazy, or she was trying to send him a message.

Back off? Get me out of here?

 

Oh, good, he was coming to rescue her. Tired beyond belief, Kit allowed the words to flow around her. She was good at tuning out. She'd been doing it all her life for one reason or another.

“Isn't that right, Katherine?” her grandmother asked, and she smiled and nodded like one of those silly bobble dolls.

Get it together, she told herself sternly.

Of course, she told herself that on the average of twice a day. And so far, she'd managed to do just that, but recent events had shattered any gains she might have made toward maintaining a quiet, orderly lifestyle.

“You remember that movie, don't you, Katherine? I think you must have been about twelve at the time. I remember telling your mother that you were too young to see it.”

She hadn't a clue which movie her grandmother was talking about. She had never been too young. Sometimes she thought she'd been born old. But she smiled and nodded again. Another five minutes and her duty would be done for the next six months. If she failed to show up for six years, her absence probably wouldn't even be noticed, but her conscience would nag her. Her conscience was like a five-pound anchor—not big enough to do much good, just big enough to be a drag.

“I got it at Bergdorf's for half the price.” The voices wafted around her while she counted down the seconds before she could politely make her escape. Come on, Carson, sweep me off my feet and get me out of here!

“Oh, this? Antoine said it was the last thing he de
signed before he died, can you imagine? I simply had to have it, of course.” The speaker wore a black dress no different from two thirds of the women present. It amused Kit to see how her grandmother's friends deliberately avoided commenting on what Kit had chosen to wear.

Why do you keep on doing it? her five-pound anchor of a conscience demanded.

Because it drives my grandfather up a wall, she told herself with grim satisfaction.

She felt sorry for her grandmother, she honestly did, but then, she was what the shrinks called an enabler. All those years she had stood silently by while the two Dixon men, father and son, had taunted poor Elizabeth Chandler, whose only faults were a tendency toward addictive behavior and rotten taste in husbands. Taunted her into alcoholism, which had led—at least, in Kit's estimation—to an indiscreet affair that had given them even more ammunition.

And all the while, their precious, perfect son had been so coldly abusive to both his wife and his daughter that even now Kit still woke up occasionally in the middle of the night, desperately seeking light and air. Being locked in a closet for hours on end left a lasting impression. Once she'd been confined for more than twenty-four hours when her father had been delayed in court and her mother had been in an alcoholic stupor.

Now Kit shifted her weight to the other foot. Mercy, these shoes ought to be against the law! She took a deep breath, looking around the familiar room in the bayside mansion some three-quarters of a mile from where she had grown up. It all came down to money. Money and position. Grandmother Dixon had had both; grandfather Dixon had had neither. Once they'd been married, it had all become his.

Money had strings, Kit reminded herself. Which was why she continued to flaunt her independence before the old man she had learned to despise before she'd even learned to ride her first two-wheeler. If he thought he could dangle her inheritance before her now and make her jump to his tune, he was sadly mistaken. She had a roof over her head—she had clothes to wear—she had books on her shelf that she had written herself, and another one in the works. And in another few weeks she might even have a royalty check in the mail.

I don't need you, she whispered silently, catching sight of her grandfather as he stood, his face flushed, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, regaling an audience of neophyte lawyers with what a great, history-making man he was.

You're small, grandfather. Really, really small. Carson Beckett, a man I've known only two days, is twice the man you'll ever be.

Had it been only two days? Funny, she thought, in some ways it seemed as if she'd known him forever. The way her eyes kept constantly searching the crowded room, seeking him out, as if there were some invisible wire connecting them.

“I bought your little booklet, Katherine,” said another friend of her grandmother, who had just joined the small group. “Naturally, I didn't read it, but I thought seeing that Flavia and I are close friends, I could at least do that much to support her only granddaughter.”

Her little booklet. Kit wondered if the remark was intended to sound as condescending as it did. Giving the woman the benefit of doubt, she said, “Thank you, Mrs. Barnes. I appreciate that.”

That booklet, as you call it, was nominated for an
award. It didn't get it, but it was mentioned in
Publishers Weekly.

 

From some ten feet away, where he'd been trapped by an elderly bow-tied gentleman, Carson caught her eye and nodded toward the front door. The loquacious old gent remarked on the weather, offering the opinion that March would go out like a lamb. Edging away, Carson declined to comment on a certain candidate running for attorney general, explaining that he was from South Carolina. Then he laughed dutifully at the old saw about North Carolina being a vale of humility between two mountains of conceit—Virginia and his home state.

Once the old guy moved on, Carson considered his options. He could join Kit and meet her fawning gentleman friend, or he could wait for her at the front door.

He decided on the latter option, which took him close to the buffet where an array of finger food surrounded a five-tier wedding cake, the lower tier sporting enough candles to set off a sprinkler system. The sight of all that food reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything since the weed sandwich Kit had put together for lunch—hadn't even finished that, if he remembered correctly. On impulse, he picked up two plates and two forks and was just reaching for something brown wrapped in bacon when he heard his name called.

He turned to see Kit waving him over.

Yours to command, lady, he thought, replacing the plates and silverware. Funny thing—it would never have occurred to him to place her in a setting like this, yet she seemed perfectly at home here, godawful gorgeous dress and all.

Resigned to waiting at least five more minutes before he could politely make a break for it, he edged past an
other clump of partygoers and wondered what the devil was he doing here anyway—in the bosom, as it were, of her family. A Beckett and Chandler rematch?

No way.

He tried to regain his objectivity, knowing even as he did that it was a lost cause. Being objective around a woman like Kit Dixon was about like trying to ignore a swarm of ground bees.

And then he was there beside her, inhaling her unique scent among the Chanel and Polo and chicken livers.

Kit grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “Grandmother, this is Carson Beckett, an—an old friend.” The look she shot him was pleading, the smile brittle and just a bit desperate. “Car, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Dixon, and this is Randolph Hart,” the Ralph Fiennes look-alike. “Randolph is a friend of my grandfather's.”

Carson shook hands with the man who was probably a year or two older, but with considerably less rough mileage on him.

“Beckett.” Hart nodded.

The woman was older than he'd first thought, but extremely well preserved. Kit's grandmother favored him with a cool smile that never reached her eyes. For the next few minutes they engaged in polite, meaningless conversation. From habit, Carson summed up the other man as professional, successful, probably heterosexual. His posture indicated a certain proprietary interest in Kit, which she didn't seem to reciprocate.

Hmm…. A young lawyer and a judge's granddaughter?

Bingo, he thought a few minutes later as the old judge joined them. “I see you met Hart, here. Just been made a senior partner, d'he tell you that? Flavia, the Sawyers were asking about you, why don't you go over and talk to them.” It was a command, not a request.

Flavia Dixon murmured something polite and left, the same fixed smile on her masklike face.

The judge turned then to Carson. “Randolph tell you about the party his folks are throwing to celebrate? He'll be taking my granddaughter, of course. Kit, see that you wear something more suitable, y'hear? Might make it a double celebration, right, son?”

The tone was jovial; the expression was not. The judge's cold gray eyes—Kit's eyes, but totally devoid of her warmth and sparkle—lingered on the flamboyant dress before moving to her hair, which had started out the evening gathered at the back of her neck by a big gold clasp. “Do something about that hair, too, while you're at it. Cut it off. Your grandmother can tell you where to go. God knows she spends enough of my money on herself.”

“Grandfather, I'm afraid—” Kit's hand gripped Carson's arm. She edged closer, and he acted on impulse.