“Ice hockey,” he repeated. “I guess that explains your shirt.”
Keeping the afghan tucked under her chin, she sat up slowly—and painfully. Her body ached. What she had needed last night was a warm bed and a hot shower. What she had gotten were a leaky tent and an inadequate settee and a kiss that made her body ache in a different sort of way.
“Stiff?” Graham said, not concerned.
“A little,” she lied. In the privacy of her own home she would have been groaning and cursing. “My tent leaked.”
“Yes.” He flipped a page in his newspaper. “I wondered how long it would take you to find your way back here.”
“I had no idea I was camped so close to your house. I mean—” She stopped to think. She had to be careful not to give Paddie away. “‘I had no idea this was even your land. I—”
He eyed her humorously—sensually—over the top of the paper. “And I thought you were in love with me.”
“Don’t be funny, Mr. Graham,” she said as haughtily as she could wrapped up in an afghan. “You know I’m not.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your story again.” He feigned surprise. “You’ll have me spinning in so many directions I won’t know which way is up.”
“I’m sure you’d figure something out,” she said wryly. “You’re in a good mood, considering.”
He laughed, and she wasn’t sure she liked this irreverent individual she had woken up to any more than she had the wild-eyed man who had hauled her out of his closet. “Be glad I’m not having you drawn and quartered,” he said languidly. “I tire of lies easily, Whitney. If you don’t want to tell me what you’re doing here, then don’t. As I said, I have a feeling I know already. By the way, there’s a bathroom through that door there and down the hall. Second door on the left.”
How chivalrous of him to think of such things, Whitney thought dryly. But as she glanced around, she saw that her satchel, suitcase, canvas bag, and even her tent and flashlight were gone. So were her discarded sweat pants, hockey shin, and pink ballet slippers. And her horn.
What if Paddie was right about him and he was some kind of murderous maniac and she was his prisoner and— “My horn,” she demanded, “what have you done with my horn?”
He folded the sports section, set it on the floor beside his chair, and picked up the real estate section. “First door on the left.”
Paranoia doesn’t suit me, Whitney told herself, and, seeing he was determined to be obtuse, she threw off the afghan, a little too hastily. Her gown had twisted around her thighs, revealing more of her long, winter-pale legs than she would have preferred in the company of a man she hardly knew and wasn’t sure she wanted to know at all. Graham gave her ego, and her discomfiture, an amused glance. She huffed and stormed inside.
It was an elegant turn-of-the-century tan stucco house, and the first door on the left led to a lovely guest room with a cherry bed and a view of a flower garden. Pink azaleas bloomed in the window. Last night’s rain had left them vibrant and glistening in the sun. Her suitcase, leather satchel, and canvas bag had all been brushed off, and her horn lay on the bed. The tent had vanished. So had her rain-soaked clothes. In the bathroom, towels and a fresh bar of apricot-scented soap were laid out.
Whitney immediately turned around, intending to tramp back out onto the porch, but Daniel Graham was there, leaning insolently against the bedroom door. “If this doesn’t suit you,” he said, “there are more rooms upstairs.
“Am I your houseguest or your prisoner?” she asked bluntly.
He laughed, moving into the room, standing close to her. She felt mussed, but his smile and the timbre of his laugh made her feel attractive. “Houseguest,” he said. “I had the dungeon done over last winter. Nothing less would hold you, I’m sure.”
“I thought you thought I was a thief.”
She winced at her less than erudite statement, but forty-eight hours ago she had been in Schenectady whipping up a batch of scrambled eggs and wondering if she’d ever see Harry again. She’d missed him more than she had ever thought possible. A lot had happened during the past two days. She was tired.
“Not a thief,” Daniel said mildly, “just a charming little liar.” He ran a finger across the square line of her chin. “A very charming little liar.”
“I was lots of things yesterday,” she said, breathless, trying to pretend he wasn’t standing so close, wasn’t touching her, “but I didn’t think charming was among them.”
He laughed softly, his breath warm and strangely erotic on her mouth. “I find burglars in pink ballet slippers enormously charming—especially when they have mischievous blue eyes.”
His finger brushed up along her cheek to the corner of her eye, massaging the tender skin there gently. Her lips were dry, but the rest of her felt warm and moist. Had she been a fool to come here?
“And I’m not little,” she said valiantly. “I can’t afford to be.”
“You’re hardly Harry Stagliatti, darlin’,” Daniel drawled so deeply, so deliciously, that Whitney nearly lost her balance.
“True,” she replied, quaking inside, but not with fear. No, definitely not with fear. “But I have to keep in shape. I do aerobic dance, lift weights, do yoga, run—”
“And practice that infernal instrument of yours.” Even his teasing was sexually tantalizing. His fingers wandered into her messy hair and brushed the smooth skin of the back of her neck. “Yes,” she said, “lots. It requires a constant, controlled stream of air. I—I work hard to maintain and increase my lung capacity. It annoys me no end that all someone like Harry Stagliatti has to do is suck in air and blow.”
“Is that all he does?”
“Well, no, I’m sure. I was just using him as an example.”
“But you don’t know him.” It was a statement, slightly disbelieving.
“No, of course not. I— What are you doing?”
“Just what you want me to do,” he replied innocently, smiling as he brought his mouth toward hers. “What we both want me to do.”
She could have denied it then, if she had wanted to, but instead she felt her lips part, felt her tongue licking them, and then his tongue, and his mouth, and his teeth, and she went into his arms. There was no horn between them now, and she could feel her breasts, unrestrained beneath the gown, pressing against his shirt. He drew her hard against him, his hands coursing down her spine, then cupping her buttocks and pulling her even more firmly against him. His long, lean, masculine body was outlined against hers. For the first time, she let her arms encircle his waist and feel the strength and hardness of his back. Her mouth opened wider, inviting a deepening of their kiss, answering the darting and probing of his tongue.
Then his hands slipped between them, touching the undersides of her breasts, and she moaned softly into his mouth until he held them freely in his palms, and then she moaned again.
“I shouldn’t
...
” she whispered hoarsely. “I can’t.”
Harry, Paddie…
Daniel pulled away, not sharply, but abruptly. “It’s all right,” he said at Whitney’s look of surprise. “Darlin’, believe me, it’s all right. I only need to be asked once. You’re not ready, I can see that.”
“I don’t even know you,” she muttered. “I don’t even know you, and yet—and yet this can happen.”
He grinned roguishly. “Ain’t life wonderful?”
“Yes, but …”
“Whitney, I sat out on that porch watching you for over an hour. I devised lots more than what just happened. Put it out of your mind, if you want.” He started toward the door, but turned, his hand on the mahogany frame. His grin was still seductively roguish. “Me, I’ll be mulling it over all morning. Make yourself at home, darlin’.”
The door shut softly behind him.
After showering and changing into a respectable pair of tan linen pants and a cream linen blouse, Whitney felt much more capable of reasoning with Daniel Graham, but his chair on the porch was empty. She called, but there was no answer. Then she saw the note scrawled above the
Orlando Sentinnel
masthead “Had to go off into the cold, cruel world, but left humming. Be back later—be good. D. P.S. You can steal whatever you want from the fridge.”
Whitney stuck her tongue out at the note, but when she headed back inside she realized she was humming, too. Handel’s
Water
Music
. She wondered if Daniel had hummed the same tune. Probably not.
The kitchen had been remodeled recently and was outfitted with gleaming modern appliances, but the big windows, the height of the ceilings, and the view of the blossoming orange grove gave the feel of old Florida. Whitney discovered a milk-white pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice in the refrigerator and made herself a pot of coffee and a couple of pieces of toast. Given the size and elegance of the house, she was surprised there wasn’t an army of servants around. Daniel Graham, Whitney decided, was an unusual man. After her breakfast, she felt so good she decided she’d call Paddie at her office at the auditorium at Orlando Community College.
“Whitney!” Paddie exclaimed upon hearing her friend’s voice. “You survived!”
“No thanks to you, Victoria. Why didn’t you tell me I was camped out on Daniel Graham’s land?”
Paddie hesitated, but only for a moment. “It would have caused you unnecessary fear and trepidation.”
“You’re damned right it would have!”
“You mean—”
“Yes, I mean! Our charming Mr. Graham caught me with my tent pitched under one of his damned orange trees!”
Whitney related her ordeal to an attentive Victoria Paderevsky, but Paddie’s chagrin, if any, didn’t last. “You’re his houseguest?” she asked eagerly. “But this is wonderful! Now you can search his house, too.”
“Victoria, you don’t search your host’s house. It just isn’t done—”
“But you say he is not there.”
“He isn’t, but—”
“Then go quickly! You must act, Whitney. Maybe we can find out once and for all why he was in Mr. Stagliatti’s rooms.”
Mister? All day yesterday he had been just Harry. But Paddie hadn’t been in her medium then. Now she was. Once they were hers, all musicians were Mr., Miss, or Mrs. Paddie didn’t believe in Dr. for anyone but herself, and she had decreed that Ms. sounded uneducated.
“Do you think Daniel would have invited me here if he had Harry tucked in the cellar?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Paddie sniffed. “Of course Graham wouldn’t have left you alone if Mr. Stagliatti was a prisoner there! No, but perhaps you can find the things he took from Harry’s room—or something. For heaven’s sake, Whitney, take this opportunity to see if there is anything to find!”
“I’ll know it when I see it?” Whitney suggested sourly.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, Victoria! Daniel’s innocent—”
“I was afraid he would have that effect on you.” Paddie sighed, disgusted. “You must maintain your objectivity. Hurry. Call me when you’ve finished. No, wait. We will be in rehearsal then. We will finish at eleven-thirty. Call me then. By the way, can you make it to the four o’clock rehearsal? People think you are arriving today.”
“They will also think I’ve just gotten off a plane. How could I play?”
“Yes, this is true,” Paddie said reluctantly. “But you must come by the auditorium. I won’t ask you to perform.”
“Good of you.”
“Yes,” Paddie agreed. “Be cautious, Whitney.”
Paddie had already hung up, and Whitney slammed the phone down. The woman was nuts! Daniel would figure out what Whitney was up to—indeed, it seemed he already had—and have both their heads. She sighed deeply. If only she hadn’t seen that nasty drawing … and Paddie’s face. Even brilliant, single-minded Victoria Paderevsky couldn’t perform under that kind of pressure.
And Harry? His disappearance and the mind games someone was playing with Paddie weren’t necessarily—or even obviously—connected. Harry was a fifty-seven-year-old adult male who could walk out on an orchestra if he damned well felt like it! It did not mean he’d been kidnapped.
And yet...
Whitney sighed. And yet could she take the chance that he
wasn’t
in danger—and that Daniel was not involved?
Paddie had seen Daniel Graham in Harry’s rooms! That had to mean
something
.
But what?
So Whitney did the only thing she could do: She searched Daniel Graham’s house.
It was by no means a simple project. The house consisted of six bedrooms, a master suite, a library, an office, a study, a formal living room, a formal dining room, a pantry, a kitchen, two storage rooms, and four bathrooms. At first Whitney dawdled, enthralled by the straightforward elegance of the decor and the beauty of the view. Through every window she could see the endless rows of citrus trees, their gorgeous white blossoms glinting in the sunlight against their dark, waxy leaves. It was a magnificent sight. God’s country, someone had called this part of Florida. On a morning such as this, Whitney could see why. In front of the house, the lake sparkled blue, with huge old cypress trees and pink dogwoods and white azaleas along its banks. Last night’s rain, and all the fear and doubts that went with it, seemed far away.
But why had Daniel been parading through his property with a rifle slung over his shoulder? Corporate vice presidents and wealthy citrus growers didn’t do such things. And his tale about poachers ranked with some of her lies. As far as the eye could see, the groves were in bloom. There was only that one section near Paddie’s cottage where Whitney had actually seen any oranges. And whoever was harassing Paddie, it wasn’t a poacher. How would a poacher know the faces of so many of the world’s famous conductors? And how would a poacher know that that particular drawing would be so insulting, so degrading, to Victoria Paderevsky?
Whitney shoved her questions aside—and continued her search. In the large kitchen trash basket, she came upon her sweat pants and sweater. Gathering them up, she ran them through the wash. Now that she knew her way around the big house, she felt quite at home.
Dennis Brain was belting out the third movement of Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4 in E-flat and Whitney was humming along, picking through the trash for any clues, thinking she should be practicing her horn, when the back door opened and Daniel and an older man and woman walked in. The woman was well into middle age, almost as tall as he was, with the same straight, somewhat arrogant-looking nose. She wore a teal-blue suit and good shoes, and she was the kind of woman who made Whitney wonder if she’d ever grow up. The other man was short and heavyset, dressed in a blue seersucker suit.