Passion's Dream (The Doms of Passion Lake Book 1) (10 page)

“What?”  A bray of laughter from Everett Burke’s end of the conversation had Clay jerking the phone away from his ear and looking at it, before gingerly putting it back.  “Sorry, my boy,” Burke finally said, still laughing, “but that was just too funny.  Did she say who she was supposed to be marrying?”

“You.”

Another bray of laughter, this one lasting twice as long, until the older man was struggling to catch his breath.

“Plus she fired me.”  By this time Clay was fighting his own laughter.

“Oh, dear.”  Burke sounded like he was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.  “Did she say why?”

“Probably because I dared to ask her why she kept referring to her fiance as her uncle.”

This time both men laughed heartily, and Clay suddenly felt a lot better about things.  More Dom-like.  More in control.  With someone as unpredictable as Leah, it was helpful to at least maintain the
illusion
of control.  Otherwise, things could easily get out of hand.

“So I take it you’re not leaving?” Burke asked hopefully when he finally sobered enough to speak.

“Hell, no.  I’m just telling you to get another man to monitor the perimeter and the surveillance cams because I’m going to be much too busy.” 
Doing a little close monitoring of
my own.  Of Leah Stanhope’s delectable body
. 
Tied to my bed and shuddering with climax after climax as I pleasure her with my hands, my lips, my tongue, my cock—
which had hardened so fast, his vision had blurred. 
Jesus Christ!

“…you care to recommend?” Burke was asking.

Recommend?  Recommend for what?  Oh.  Right. 
“Uhhhh, yeah, let me call Adam and see who’s available.”

Burke just chuckled.  “I’ll trust your judgment.  Good night, Clay.”

“Good night,
Uncle
Everett.”  He hung up to the other man’s laughter.

* * * *

She awoke to the strident ringing of her cell phone on the nightstand beside her bed.  Propping herself up on one elbow, she glanced groggily at her travel alarm clock as she reached for the phone.  Ten o’clock.  She’d slept for three hours—four, tops.  Stifling a huge yawn, she pressed the icon, then castigated herself for not looking to see who it was.  “Hello?” she said, trying to inject an I’ve-been-up-for-hours brightness into her voice.  If it was Uncle Everett calling to check up on her, she certainly didn’t want him worrying about her inability to sleep.

“May I please speak with Leah Stanhope?” inquired a male voice with a slight British accent.

“This is she.” 
Who on earth—?

“Ah, Ms. Stanhope, I’m so happy I caught you in.”  He actually did sound happy and Leah couldn’t resist a tiny smile.  “My name is Peter Ryan.  I own an art gallery over on Worth Avenue—Ryan’s Roost—perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Leah opened her mouth to frame a negative reply, but he hurried on before she could utter it.

“But of course you haven’t.  That’s not important.  What
is
important is that I had occasion to speak with your uncle a couple of weeks ago and he happened to mention that you were going to be in town.”

Wait.  What?  Uncle Everett knew two weeks ago that I was going to be coming here?  He didn’t tell
me
until two days ago!
  All of a sudden she found herself paying closer attention to Mr. Peter Ryan and what he was saying.

“…business associates for years, and I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to take you out to dinner.  Perhaps this evening?”

“I-this evening?”  Leah was thinking rapidly. 
Why not? 
After all, going out was infinitely better than staying home alone, brooding about Clay Knight.  And she
would
be brooding about him, she knew that for a fact.  The whole, brief, unsettling interaction with him had triggered something fundamental deep inside her and she feared that now she would
never
be able to forget him.  That he would haunt her thoughts and dreams forever.  That he would leave her body hungering for his scent, his heat, aching to feel his touch for the rest of her life.

Oh, yes, a nice dinner with a nice man is totally in order here.

“I realize I’m a total stranger,” Peter Ryan went on smoothly as Leah’s silence stretched beyond the point of politeness, “but if you have any doubts about the sterling quality of my character, please call your guardian.  I’m sure he’ll be happy to confirm your worst fears.”

Leah laughed, but something inside her urged her to caution.  “Thank you, Mr. Ryan—”

“Peter.  Please.”

“—Peter,” she capitulated, “I would love to go to dinner with you.
  C’mon, Leah, it’s just dinner.  In a public place.  With people all around.  What could possibly happen?

“Oh, splendid.  Shall I call for you around seven?

“That sounds fine.”

She tapped the phone off, staring at it thoughtfully. 
Strange. 
It was completely out of character for Uncle Everett to divulge information about her to anyone, much less a total stranger three thousand miles away.  Especially since someone—most likely Richard—had begun sending her those awful notes and the dead flowers. 
Maybe he just wants you to get out a little more, do a little socializing.  Maybe he thinks you might hook up with Peter Ryan.  Maybe…

She selected Uncle Everett’s number.  As soon as he answered, she said, “Do you know a Peter Ryan?”

“Yes, he’s a competitor of mine.  Can’t say I like him very much.  He’s a bit unctuous for my taste.  Why do you ask?”

“Did you tell him to look me up while I was here in Palm Beach?”

“Absolutely not!  I would never divulge your whereabouts to anyone.  Are you telling me he’s contacted you?”  Alarm made his voice shrill.

“Yes, I just hung up from talking with him.  He asked me out to dinner tonight.  He said you told him two weeks ago that I would be in Palm Beach, even though you didn’t tell
me
I’d be here until two days ago.”

There was a brief pause, then Burke said, “All right, Leah, I want you to do exactly what I tell you.  Take your phone and give it to Clay Knight and tell him what just happened.”  His voice was tight, urgent.

She felt a cold ball of fear settle in the pit of her stomach, spreading ice through her veins until she was shivering.  “But he’s not here.  I fired him.”

“He’s there,” Burke countered.  “Go find him.  Do it now.”

“But I haven’t had my shower yet.  Or breakfast.”

“Do as I say, Leah.”

She’d never heard Everett Burke say anything to anyone in anger before.  But she was hearing it now and the ice skated up her spine.  “Uncle Everett, you’re scaring me.  What’s going on here?”

Another pause.  Finally, he just said, “Go find Clay.  Now.” And hung up.

Well, crap. 
She wasn’t kidding about wanting a nice, hot shower and some breakfast.

Take your phone and give it to Clay Knight.

Dressing quickly in white slacks and a red knit top, she thrust her feet into a pair of red sandals, grabbed her phone and went in search of the man she’d never expected to see again.

She didn’t have to search very hard.  The sound of a lawn mower led her through the front door right to him.  He was wearing another pair of denim cut-offs, not quite as threadbare as the ones he’d worn yesterday, but still...holy crap.  Her belly did a slow roll.  The man was sin personified.
 
She just stood there and stared at him, mesmerized by the way his dusky skin seemed to glow in the sunlight.  By the rippling steel of his back and shoulder muscles as he guided the small tractor away from the house to cut a fresh swath through the emerald velvet of the lawn.  Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered how powerful those bunching muscles had felt beneath her hands, how smooth that glistening skin…
oh, God. 
She shut her eyes and for one brief moment lust battled with fear for control of her brain. 
Take the phone to Clay.  Tell him exactly what you told me.

Fear won out.

She walked across the mosaic floor of the terrace, to stand at the edge, waiting for him to return and start the next row.  She knew the minute he saw her.  Because, even though she couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark aviators, she could feel them on her as the mower inexorably drew closer and closer.

No, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she
could
see those high cheekbones, strong chin, and luscious, sculpted, sensuous lips.  He was…the only word she could think of was beautiful.  Beautiful in that sleek, powerful way a predator is beautiful.  He stopped directly opposite her, turned off the motor and climbed down, his ground-eating strides closing the distance between them.  Without a word, he simply held out his hand and she placed her phone on his upturned palm. 
Okay, so obviously he’s already talked to Uncle Everett.  Either that or he reads minds.

She watched as he hit redial, his expression becoming more and more grim as it just kept ringing.  He disconnected and dialed information.  “Palm Beach, Florida.  Ryan’s Roost.”  He listened, then dialed the number he’d been given.  After a few seconds, his chin lifted and his entire persona changed.  “Ah,
oui
,” he said in a French accent that would have fooled any Frenchman, and a seductive smile any Frenchman worthy of the name would have killed to own, “
bonjour, mademoiselle, je m’apelle
Jacques Chouinard.  I am calleeng from La Gallerie du Nord, in Paris, France.  May I know to whom I have ze honor of speakeeng?”  Pause.  “Ah, Mademoiselle Forsythe.  May I say you ’ave a very lovely voice.”

Leah just stared at him. 
Oh. Migod
.  For just an instant she envied Mademoiselle Forsythe, being on the receiving end of that delicious voice.

“Tell me,
ma cherie,
would eet be possible to speak to Monsieur Ryan?  I am returneeng hees call.”  Clay darted a glance at Leah.  “Out of ze country, you say?”  The accent was fake, but his surprise was not.  “But, I do not understand. I just received a call from heem, from zees very numbaire, een fact.  How eez zees possible?  Eez anyone else, perhaps, een your office?  Ah, I see.  I see.  Ze gallery ees closed for ze summaire, you say?  Zen what are
you
doeeng zere, if I may ask,
ma cherie
?”  His voice became teasing, almost flirty, as if he really were a French gallery owner talking to Mademoiselle Forsythe.
“
Ah,
oui
. 
Je comprends
.  Collecteeng ze mail.  But of course. Eez zaire,
peut-etre
, anozer numbaire where Monsieur Ryan may be reached?  Eet eez very urgent zat I speak weeth heem. 
Eh bien.
Merci.  Merci mille fois, mademoiselle.  Au revoir.
”

Without looking up, he lowered the phone, dialed another number, and pressed Speaker.  When a male voice said “Hello,” Clay said in the thickest Texas accent Leah had ever heard, “Howdy there, this is Tex Bodine out from Amarillo way? Am ah speakin’ to Peter Ryan?”

“Yes, sir, my name is Peter Ryan.”

“The Peter Ryan who owns that fancy-ass art place in Palm Beach?”

“One of my galleries is in Palm Beach, yes.  Is there a particular piece you’re interested in, Mr. Bodine?”

“No, no, ah’m gonna be stayin’ at Mar-a-Lago next week, playin’ a little golf with The Donald, and a frienda mine told me ah simply had to stop by your place while ah’m there.” 

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Bodine, but I’m afraid the gallery is closed for the summer.  Might I suggest you visit our website and leave your email address.  Someone will get back to you within twenty-four hours.”

0-\“Well, ah surely will do that, Mister Ryan.  Thank you so much.  Y’all have a day now, y’hear?”  Clay ended the call and looked at Leah, alarmed at the stricken expression on her face.  “Was that the man you talked to?”

She shook her head.  “No,” she said, helpless to stop the ice creeping through her veins, chilling her to the bone in spite of the sun’s heat beating down on her head.  Her eyes followed his movements as he opened the back of her phone, removed the battery and the SIM card, then turned and tossed all the pieces into a small metal toolbox beneath the seat of the tractor.  Then he turned to Leah, noting her pallor, the anxiety prowling in her eyes.  He took both her hands in his.  They were ice cold.  “Tell me what he said to you, word for word.”

He made no other move to touch her.  Which was just as well, she decided.  She felt so brittle, she feared she’d shatter at the slightest touch.  She was trembling and couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and her words, when they finally came, were halting.

“H-he said he was…Peter Ryan, a…colleague of Everett Burke’s, and he owned a g-gallery on…Worth Avenue, Ryan’s Roost, had I…heard of it and I said no.  Then he said Uncle Everett had told him…a couple of…weeks ago that I was going to be in…P-Palm Beach and he would like to take me out to dinner tonight.  And I said yes and he’s…p-picking me up at s-seven.”  As she struggled against the hysteria bubbling up in her chest, Clay pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in his heat and his power and his scent, a heady mix of clean, masculine skin and sweat.  As he held her, exactly as he had done that long-ago day at the beach, she was swept by a sense of longing so intense, she wanted to cry.