Authors: Anne Stuart
Cathy’s hand flew to her own nose, touching it gingerly as she remembered her flight from the French restaurant and Sin. “How
interesting,” she managed in her chilliest voice.
Another pause. “Cathy,” Meg said finally, her husky voice earnest, “Sin’s in terrible shape.”
“Why? Did Greg hit him back? I wouldn’t have thought he’d do much damage to anyone Sin’s size,” she said coldly.
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. Sin’s in love with you. He’s been going crazy trying to find you this last month, and all his leads
have turned up blank.”
“Well, he’ll just have to try harder. I’m sure Pops is paying him enough to make it worth his while.” Cathy’s voice was
bitter.
“Pops isn’t paying him anything. He quit. Over the phone from that island, as a matter of fact. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No. Neither did Pops. Not that it makes any difference,” she said staunchly. But it did.
“Don’t you care about him at all, Cathy? You never used to be so hard-headed. The man loves you.”
“What makes you think that? He never told me a word about it,” she shot back, amazed to find her hands were trembling. She hadn’t known
it was that cold.
“Of course he didn’t. How could he tell you he loved you when he had to keep lying to you? He was trying to protect you, Cathy. He deserves
something better from you than a complete disappearance. You owe him a hearing at least.”
“I owe him nothing.” She rubbed her hands together, to get rid of the chill. “And where did you come up with all this?”
“Sin and Charles really are old friends. They were at Harvard together. Sin’s confided in Charles, and Charles has told me—”
“With strict orders to pass it on. Well, no thanks,” Cathy finished for her. “He can find some other poor fool and marry her. There are
people with more money than us.”
“One of whom is Sin!” Meg snapped, her sympathy coming to an abrupt end. “He’s George Farwell’s nephew, Cath. He
doesn’t need our money.”
“Oh.” Another part of Cathy’s rage bit the dust. “Well, this is costing us a small fortune. I’ll call some time later. Maybe
on the weekend.”
“How far away are you? When are you coming back?” Meg demanded. “Can I tell Sin you called?”
“No, to the last. I don’t know when I’m coming back, and I am not about to tell you where I am. Next thing I know Sin or someone equally
unwelcome will show up to drag me back to dear old daddy. I’ll be in touch.” She hesitated, then finally asked the question that had plagued
her mind. “Oh, Meg, you wouldn’t happen to know whether Sin has filed for an annulment yet, would you?”
There was a disgusted snort from the other end. “Of course I know. He’s done no such thing. You’re still legally married. I told you, the
man loves you!”
“Oh,” she said blankly. And then hung up without another word. She stayed there in the cold Vermont wind, staring at the silent telephone for a
full five minutes, lost in thought. Could she risk it again? Did she dare to take one last chance, on the remote possibility that Meg was right, and
Sinclair MacDonald had fallen in love with her? Or would she spend the rest of her life running and hiding, always tied to a man she hadn’t had the
courage to face?
It didn’t take her long to decide—the ten minutes it took to drive back up the hill to her cabin were sufficient. If Mohammed wasn’t a
good enough private investigator to find the mountain, then the mountain would have to travel back to Georgetown.
It took her longer than she would have expected to close up the cabin. First she had to arrange to have the water drained and the electricity turned off.
The food had to be eaten up or tossed out, the house scrubbed from top to bottom to keep the winter creatures from making an unwelcome home there, to chew
through mattresses and get stuck in the fieldstone chimney. Library books had to be returned, the car checked for its twelve-hour trip back to Washington.
She checked off each item on the list, staring at it with a look of exhausted satisfaction. She was finally ready. In her purse was Sin’s duplicate
set of keys, the set that he’d tossed her on their wedding day with great casualness. The keys to the yacht, their hotel room, his BMW. And the keys
to his apart-ment in Alexandria.
In the past few weeks she had staunchly ignored the ramifications of that casual gift, deciding several times that she would toss them out. After all, she
would never have a use for them. But something had stopped her—perhaps an unconscious echo of medieval times, when the mistress of the castle was
ceremoniously presented with the keys as a symbol of her rank. If Sin had expected their relationship to be a temporary delaying tactic in the Caribbean,
why had he given her his Washington keys?
As she started on the first leg of her long journey, she glanced at her reflection in the car mirror. There was a light in her green eyes, a sense of
purpose to her soft mouth. Some things were worth taking a chance on, worth fighting for, she thought, putting the car in gear and starting down the
winding dirt road. And Sin MacDonald was, despite her earlier misgivings, one of those things.
There was no sign of his forest-green BMW in the parking lot adjacent to his building, or on any of the streets around. Hedging her bets, Cathy parked
several blocks away, walking the distance through the autumn-cool streets of Alexandria in jeans, high-laced boots and a thick pullover. Compared to
Vermont’s early winter the weather was positively tepid, and her hips swung with a casual sway as she strolled down the sidewalks. It was nearly
evening; almost seven o’clock, and Cathy had been driving for thirteen hours. Thirteen hours that had seen her grow progressively more light-hearted
as she neared the Washington area, despite the uncertainty of her reception. When she reached the outskirts of Alexandria she had hesitated, longing for a
hot shower and a nap more than anything. But a belated uncertainty crept in, and she knew if she put it off she might never have the courage to beard the
panther in his den. He would simply have to take her, travel-stained and exhausted, as she was. She only hoped he’d take her.
There was no answer to her ringing of the red-painted, paneled door of his apartment. By the looks of things Meg had been right—Sin didn’t need
her money. The understated charm of the building and the foyer proclaimed discreetly that here resided people of wealth and taste. Fumbling with the keys,
she tried one after the other, going through the entire set twice before managing to turn the bolt. And then she slipped into the darkened flat, closing
the door behind her.
It had a musty, closed-up smell about it, she realized as she moved around switching on lights. She opened a window to air it out, then turned to survey
Sin’s living quarters.
They suited him, she decided after a long perusal. Leather couches, brass lamps, ancient oriental carpets on the polished hardwood floors. The striking
modern painting above the fireplace boasted a signature well-known to Cathy, and the impresssionist print in the hallway turned out to be quite real. The
burgundy red of the curtains comple-mented the deep hues of the carpet, and the wood shone with loving care. The place looked like Sin— casual,
elegant, and comfortable. And very handsome, she added gloomily, wandering through the beautifully organized country-style kitchen with its gleaming copper
and butcher block counters. But she was unprepared for the sybaritic luxury of the bedroom and bath. The kingsize bed dominated the large room, the
striking charcoal nudes that hung on the walls adding a touch of sensuality. Those would have to go, Cathy decided impishly. They were far more
full-figured than she was—positively Ruben esque, when it came right down to it. She didn’t want Sin to have the chance to make odious
comparisons.
Sudden doubt assailed her. What if he wasn’t glad to see her? What if Meg had read only what she wanted to read into Sin’s actions? What if he
was glad to be rid of her, and finding her in his apartment was the last thing he wanted?
At that moment her eyes dropped to the bedside table. There was a picture there, a snapshot of a beautiful woman in a bikini. A jealous misery washed over
her, and then she stared more closely at the photo. It was a very happy Cathy. Sometime during those four days on St. Alphonse Meg had taken her picture,
and Sin had wheedled it out of her. It was in a heavy silver frame, her green eyes laughing up from behind the curtain of blond hair. There was a question
in her eyes, a look of doubt that told Cathy that Sin had taken it after all. The day they left their tiny island and headed for disillusionment on
Martin’s Head. If she looked closely she fancied she could see the hurt lingering, waiting to attack. Carefully she placed the frame back on the
table. And then she noticed, lying unobtrusively beside it, the gold chain.
Tears of relief flooded her eyes as the last of her doubts vanished. He wanted her. For the first time in six weeks she found she was hungry. There was
scarcely anything in Sin’s refrigerator. Finally making do with a cheese sandwich and one of Sin’s imported beers, she strolled over to his
desk. Pieces of paper littered the top, covered with Sin’s bold scrawl. Her name, over and over again. A list of her best friends, complete with
addresses and phone numbers, all crossed out. A listing of her car model and license plate. And various other notes concerning her habits, her friends, her
favorite pastimes and restaurants. Cathy stared down at them with a wistful smile. For all his legendary proficiency he hadn’t been able to find her.
She’d covered her tracks a bit too well. A yawn overtook her, and then another, and she rubbed her gritty eyes wearily.
Where was he? If he didn’t show up soon she’d be sound asleep, and she had grave doubts about her ability to reenact Goldilocks and the Three
Bears. Maybe a shower would wake her up. If Sin came home in the middle of it, well... Things would simply have to resolve themselves naturally.
But the hot shower had the opposite effect. Once she stepped from the steaming stall she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Toweling her hair dry, she
stepped nude into his bedroom, her toes reveling in the thick brown carpet. He’d had the chain repaired, she noticed. It hung a little more loosely
around her slender waist than it had six weeks before, but at least it didn’t slide off once she did the clasp.
It had been a fitting gift, she mused. For despite her hurt and betrayal, she was chained to him as surely as if she were manacled. But it was her own
overwhelming love that chained her, and therein lay her power and her salvation.
There was a floor-length hooded velour wrapper behind the bathroom door. She pulled it on, and then, on impulse, moved through the apartment, turning off
the lights, closing the window, effectively wiping out any trace of her early arrival. And then, switching off the bedroom light, she climbed into his huge
bed, chuckling to herself, “And who’s been sleeping in my bed?” And then, moments after her still damp head hit the soft feather pillow,
she was sound asleep.
The voices woke her from a deep, dreamless sleep. For a moment she panicked, forgetting in the darkened interior of the bedroom exactly where she was. And
then, as she returned to full cognizance, the panic deepened. That was a woman’s voice out there, a light, sultry female that provided a perfect
counterpoint to Sin’s deep tones. Oh, my God, Cathy thought, the full horror of the situation washing over her. He’s brought a woman home with
him.
Silently she crawled out of the bed, pulling the velour wrapper about her as she tiptoed to the half-opened door and pressed her ear against it, straining
to hear their conversation.
“Get some sleep, Sin darling,” the woman said companionably, and Cathy gnashed her teeth.
“You look like hell. You’ve been working too hard, you know.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well, Barb,” he confessed. Cathy could imagine him running a hand through his rumpled brown curls as he made
that admission, and her stomach knotted with sudden longing. How was she going to escape before he brought that—that creature into the bedroom?
“Is she worth it, Sin?” the woman’s voice came again, and Cathy pressed closer, wondering if she heard correctly.
“Yes.” The answer was unequivocal. To Cathy’s mingled relief and consternation he put a hand behind the lady’s slender back and
guided her to the front door. “Tell Frank I appreciate him letting me borrow his best girl for the evening. I don’t think I could have managed
to remember all that without your taking notes.”
“What else is a secretary for? Besides, if Frank can’t trust his brother who can he trust? I’m sure you’d do the same for
him.” She let out a small trill of laughter. “Not that I’m as understanding. I wouldn’t care for Frank to spend an evening alone
with your Cathy. She’s far too pretty, if that picture is any proof.” She reached up and gave Sin a sisterly kiss on the cheek. “Find
her, Sin. Find her, or get over her.”
“I’m trying, Barb,” he said morosely. “I’ve got to.” The light in the hall illuminated his face for a moment as he let
Barb out, and Cathy drew an involuntary breath of surprise. He looked drawn and haggard, and she could easily believe he hadn’t been sleeping well.
Was she the cause of that? She could only hope so. Dropping the robe on the thick carpet, she scrambled back into the bed, pulling the covers up to her
chin, and prepared to wait.
She didn’t have long. First the chink of ice and the sound of a drink being poured filtered in from the living room. Then the sound of his boots
dropping on the floor, the muted notes of a bluesy ballad from the stereo. The lights flickered off, the bedroom door opened, and Sin stood there, framed
in the doorway, his shirt unbuttoned and pulled from his pants. There was enough light from the streetlamps outside to illuminate the room, casting the
bed’s lone occupant in the shadows. Without bothering to turn on the light, he kicked the door shut behind him, shrugged out of his shirt, and took a
long pull from his drink. And then he stepped on the hastily discarded bathrobe.