Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (30 page)

“Oh? And what's the good news?”

“That
is
the good news.”

Again the swift flare of color, this time sweeping down to Cathlin's chest. “I'm delighted to hear it, Officer Montserrat. Now maybe you'll get the bloody hell out of my kitchen.”

“One more thing. You're not going to see Severance. Not alone, anyway. Not after what just happened.”

“Any other orders?”

“If there are, I'll tell you, O'Neill. And you'll obey them.” His voice was cold. One hundred percent professional. “Because that's the only way we're going to get out of this whole bloody mess.”

Cathlin watched him stride from the room. “Like hell I will.”

 

D
OWN THE HILL, HIDDEN
beyond the ragged line of trees at the edge of the marsh, a man eased back into the shadows. Carefully he flipped out a transmitter. Then he began to speak softly.

D
OMINIC SAT DOWN ON THE
old rosewood desk and frowned at the sunny study filled with pictures. Pictures of Donnell O'Neill, looking happy but as if he were thinking of something else. Pictures of a beautiful woman with golden eyes. Cathlin's mother, no doubt.

And then there were the pictures of Cathlin, riding her first pony, climbing her first tree, going to her first tea dance in high-heeled satin pumps.

Something twisted in his gut.

Muttering darkly, he picked up the phone and jabbed out a number. “Nicholas?”

“Right here. Any luck with Cathlin?”

“I'm working on it. Things have been a little chaotic here, I'm afraid.”

“The same on this end,” his friend said grimly. “We've had a call from my solicitor in London. Someone has been asking about the reports we had to file locally after the discovery of Gabriel's remains. We've asked the people here to keep it quiet as best they can, but I'm afraid someone's gotten wind of the story. It was only a matter of time, I guess.”

“I'm not surprised to hear it. We had a visitor today, too. An unexpected visitor,” Dominic said flatly. “And that letter you wrote to Cathlin has disappeared. How long do we have until the newspapers get hold of this, Nicholas?”

“Who knows? I'll do what I can. I still have a few friends on
Fleet Street I can trust. But I think you'd better get Cathlin down here now, so you start fulfilling that week of residence. Meanwhile, Kacey and I have begun looking into the documents here, trying to track down anything about the elusive Gabriel Montserrat. So far, no luck, however.”

“Ditto here. The whole thing's damned strange. Cathlin's attitude isn't going to help either.”

“Attitude?”

“She hates anything to do with the work that killed her father. And unfortunately, that means me.”

“You'll bring her around,” Nicholas said confidently. “You always do.”

Maybe not this time,
Dominic thought. And maybe this was the only time that really counted.

“Dominic, are you still there?”

“Right here, Nicholas. By the way, there's nothing you aren't telling me, is there? No other crazy stipulations that Gabriel put on this bequest.”

There was a tiny pause. “What makes you ask that?”

“You haven't answered me, Nicholas.”

His friend cleared his throat. “Look, I've got to go. Kacey's just come in with Genevieve. I'll talk to you when you get here, Dominic. And make it soon.”

 

S
HE'D BLOODY SHOW
D
OMINIC
Montserrat, Cathlin thought.

She would be pampered, perfect, and beautiful when she left this room. And just let him
try
to stop her from conducting her business. Serita had friends, after all, friends in the very highest places. They would dispose of a nasty little insect named Dominic Montserrat in a second.

Frowning, Cathlin dumped a packet of expensive French bath powder into the big old tub and turned the faucets on high, letting the fragrance rise in rich clouds around her.

Angrily, she settled into a froth of bubbles and forced her mind to business, something she'd woefully forgotten in the last twenty-four hours since Dominic had come charging into her well-ordered life. Cathlin sat back and began a mental tally of her current inventory against the desires—and ruthless dictates—of her well-heeled clients.

No Sauternes for Alexandra, the banker's wife. Her third husband had recently absconded to parts unknown, taking the family diamonds along with him. And since
he
had adored Sauternes, now
she
couldn't abide the sight of them.

Next was her German diplomat. No more vintage champagne there. Poor Herr Schmidt had recently been involved in a scandal with a hot-blooded but underaged heir to a French champagne dynasty. As a result, he'd had to pay a cool two million to buy his way out of the nasty legal proceedings the family threatened him with. Yes, only fine robust burgundies for Herr Schmidt from now on. Cathlin decided that an elegant Clos St. Denis 1969, silky and rich with fruit, would make a perfect offering for the fastidious Herr Schmidt.

That left only the Château Lafite. A very upscale restauranteur in Brighton had been pestering her for a new shipment of first growth burgundy. After lunch she'd place a call and see if Marcel still wanted—

Abruptly, all thought stopped as Cathlin watched the bathroom door inch open. Maybe it was the intruder. Or maybe it was—

Dominic eased into the room, silent and cool. Only his glittering eyes showed his fury. “Just what the hell do you think you're doing?”

Cathlin made a lunge for a towel, missed, then sank low into the now-churning water. “It's bloody obvious, I should think. Get out!”

A muscle flashed at his jaw. “I didn't know where you were. I called a dozen times, but you didn't answer.”

“Next time I'll post a schedule.” Cathlin slid lower, bubbles
frothing around her. “I'm fine, as you can see. So now you can get out.”

But Dominic merely angled one broad shoulder against the doorframe. He was naked from the waist up, his bronze chest dusted with dark hair. Cathlin felt her cheeks flame as he studied her from the end of her toes emerging from a froth of bubbles to the damp black hair curling at her neck. “I got worried when you didn't answer. Didn't you hear me calling?”

“No. Now are you satisfied?” Foam sloshed across Cathlin's shoulder, skimming the curve of one breast.

“Not in the least.”

Cathlin felt her face burn.

Dominic said a raw word and grabbed the towel hanging over the edge of the door. “Get dressed, damn it. I need your help. I've found something up in the attic.”

“What?”

“You'll see.” The towel flew toward her and landed in the scented foam with a soft hiss.

Cathlin lurched up, bubbles sculpting her breasts and thighs as she dived to rescue the now sodden towel.

Dominic's gaze followed her every inch of the way.

“Get
out!
” Cathlin stormed, her cheeks crimson, the wet towel clamped protectively to her chest and thighs. “Unless you want a broken neck to go along with those bruises on your head!”

“It might just be worth it,” he said softly. His eyes flowed over the towel. Her every wet curve lay molded in its damp, seductive drape. Then his gaze moved lower, to the creamy legs that ran up to—

Dominic bit back a curse and turned away. “Hurry up. Unless you want me to come in after you and bleed on all those nice bubbles.”

Somewhere down the hall the phone began an incessant clamor.

“Damned bloody phone.” Jamming his hands into his pockets,
Dominic strode off, muttering a stream of curses that left Cathlin red-faced. But worst of all was the way her heart was slamming as she clutched the damp, entirely useless towel to her chest.

Because even though she wanted to hate him, even though she was struggling desperately hard, she still wasn't able to manage it.

 

D
OMINIC SLAMMED DOWN THE
phone. Wrong bloody number. It didn't help that his head was pounding and his shoulder ached from crawling around that bloody attic searching for her cameo.

Then, when Cathlin hadn't answered—

He frowned, not wanting to remember the fear that had kicked in at her silence. He'd plunged up the stairs, head down and shoulders low, in a textbook stance as he braced for a concealed attacker. Even now, his nerves were screaming, and he was riding a wave of adrenaline. He'd crouched just outside her door, then reached for his shoulder, just at the spot where a revolver would have been holstered.

Only there was no gun. Dominic had sworn there'd never be a gun there again.

But here he was, making all the old moves. And there had been no one better at those moves than Dominic Montserrat.

Right up to that day in Rome when four kidnappers had moved in on the car where Dominic was escorting the twin children of one of the queen's lesser-known cousins to a horse show. Dominic had shoved the towheaded eight-year-olds behind him and dropped to one knee, then squeezed off six quick shots.

It had all happened before he'd known it.

When he'd turned the bodies over, he'd discovered that three of the men were still in their teens. And the fourth “man” was really a girl of barely sixteen.

He'd gotten through the rest of the tour, then gone back home and fallen apart. He'd gotten stinking drunk and stayed that way for nearly a week.

After that he'd turned in his resignation. And he'd never worn a gun again, nor wanted to.

Until now.

He jabbed shaky fingers through his hair, sick at the old memories. Outside the window, wind shook the trees that bordered the tidal plain. Seacliffe was a desolate place, but it had its own kind of beauty. It was a place where a man could find himself. A place whose solitude forced a man to face his private demons.

The only question was if the man
liked
what he saw.

Dominic was wondering how he'd gotten pulled into this mess when he caught the faint scent of flowers behind him. Something subtle. Lilacs, he decided.

And then she was behind him, fast and utterly furious. “Let's get one thing straight right now, Macho Man.” Cathlin poked his chest and the cold, wet towel, newly rescued from her bubble bath, slapped him in the face.

“Nice aim, Irish. Almost as nice as those long legs of yours. But come to think of it, I prefer the sight of your high, full—”

“I don't care what you like!”

His hands rose in surrender. “I'm all ears. Well maybe not all ears. I'm a flesh and blood male, after all. There are some parts that are—”

“Shut up!”

Dominic complied, crossing his arms and watching more of that damnably enchanting color sweep Cathlin's cheeks. It left him thinking about what it would take to make her blush like that again.

In soft, hidden places.

Places he'd graze and stroke until—

Forget it, Montserrat. It's all business now, remember?
“Whatever you say, Cathlin. I put myself entirely into your hands.”

Again the color, rising through her cheeks. “If you did that, you'd be sorry, because right now I'd consider it a great pleasure to snap several bones into neat little pieces. And
that's
just for starters.”

His eyebrow rose. “Sounds painful.”

“Blast it, you—”

His eyes slid over her robed body. “Hadn't you better get ready? You're seeing your debonair friend in an hour.”

Cathlin tossed the wet towel right in his face. “You're right, I am. And I'm going alone. And that's one order you're
not
going to worm your way around,
Officer
Montserrat.”

 

W
HEN
C
ATHLIN WALKED OUT
the front door, she was tugging on a jacket of Harris tweed. Dominic noticed how the smoky golden plaid brought out the turbulence in her eyes. He also noticed the pallor in her face and the set to her jaw. Attitude.

“Let's go,” he said curtly.

“This is business. You're
not
coming.”

“From now on, where you go, I go, O'Neill.”

“What gives you the right to interfere?”

“Interfering is my job,” Dominic growled. It was only too true. Interfering was the heart of close protection, because protecting someone meant being unpleasant. It meant pointing out problems. It meant being nosy and curious and meddlesome while you were busy suspecting anyone and everyone.

And Dominic had been damned good at that part of his job. Before it had nearly eaten a hole through his soul, that is.

“Your job? You mean along with repairing roofs?”

“Taking care of a woman has always been a man's job.”

She pushed past him. “Maybe this woman doesn't need protecting.”

“Too bloody bad.” Dominic strode after her. “You're forgetting something else, Irish. Half of that money is mine, and I need
you
to get it.”

Cathlin swept her hair from her face and called back over her shoulder. “I'm loading Richard's wine. If you're not in the car when I get back, I leave without you.”

Dominic watched her stride off toward the Jeep. Until he had something more concrete, he was going to keep Cathlin O'Neill close. It was only logical, given the amount of money involved in Gabriel Ashton's will.