couldn’t faint again, she thought desperately. Not twice in one day. She shoved the fork in her mouth, and concentrated on chewing. She might as well have been eating cardboard.
She’d slept wrapped in cardboard for over two months.
Forcing herself to swallow, desperate to change the subject, she said jaggedly, “Where does my grandfather spend his winters?”
Cade sat back in his chair, gazing at her, his brain in overdrive. Mysterious was a euphemism where Tess was concerned. She was secretive and closemouthed, a woman for whom terror was a constant companion. What had she done at sixteen—or what had happened to her—to induce that blank-eyed stare, those trembling fingers?
He shoved down an unwelcome pang of compassion, allowing all his latent distrust to rise to the surface instead. She’d been a model of good behavior ever since she’d arrived on Malagash Island. But preceding that? What then?
“Are you in trouble with the law?” he demanded.
“No,” she said. But her gaze was downcast, and her voice lacked conviction.
Fine, he thought. I might just do some investigating on my own behalf. Del likes to think he holds the reins, but I’m the one in control here.
With equal certainty Cade knew that if he didn’t bring Tess Ritchie back to Moorings, Del would order the chauffeur to drive him to the island and find her for himself.
He said casually, “You speak very good Italian.”
“When I was twelve, I lived for a year in Rome.” She glanced up, her eyes shuttered. “I also speak German, Dutch, French and a smattering of Spanish. A European upbringing has its advantages.” Which, she thought bitterly, really was lying.
“Favorite artist?”
“Van Gogh. I don’t see how anyone could live in Amsterdam and not love his work. Rembrandt and Vermeer close seconds.”
“Your tastes in music are eclectic and you like espionage novels.”
“You should be the investigator,” she said nastily. “I also like medieval art, lavender soap and pizza with anchovies.”
Lavender, he thought, remembering the fragrant, misty rows of blue in the fields of Provence. It was an unsophisticated scent, earthy and real, that somehow suited her. Trying to focus, he said at random, “Which university did you attend?”
Her lashes flickered. She said edgily, “There are other ways of getting an education.”
“Where’s your mother living now?”
She dropped her fork with a small clatter. “I have no idea.”
Her main course was put in front of her. Tess grabbed the nearest knife and fork and started to eat. Red wine had been poured in her glass, the firelight dancing like rubies in its depths. In sudden despair, exhausted by memories she only rarely allowed to surface, she craved to be home in her little cabin, the woodstove burning, a mug of hot chocolate on the table beside her.
And the clock turned back, so that she’d never met Cade Lorimer; never heard of a putative grandfather who lived only forty miles away.
Cade said, “I’ve upset you.”
“You’re good at that.”
“I’d noticed. I’ll book myself into the hotel and get in touch with Del tonight—we’ll go see him tomorrow morning. The library’s closed Sunday and Monday—I checked.”
“I’m sure you did. I’m not going.”
No point in arguing now, Cade thought. But at least there was some color back in her cheeks.
What had she done at sixteen? Quelling a question he couldn’t possibly answer, he began talking about the Vermeers he’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum, segueing to the political scene in Manhattan; and discovered she was well-informed, her judgments acute, occasionally slanted in a way that fascinated him. Then, of course, there was the play of firelight in the thick mass of her hair, the shadows shifting over her delicate collarbone and ivory throat.
Wanting her hadn’t gone away; it had, if anything, intensified. Good thing he was known for his willpower; he was going to need all of it. Because to seduce Tess Ritchie would be a very bad move.
They were sipping espressos when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me a minute,” he said, and took it from his pocket. “Lorimer,” he barked.
Tess straightened her shoulders, trying to work the tension from them unobtrusively. In half an hour she’d be home, her door locked, her life resuming its normal, peaceful pattern.
Peace was all she wanted. Peace, order and control.
Then, abruptly, her attention switched to Cade’s side of the conversation. “He’s what?” Cade was saying. “How bad? So you’re at the hospital now. Okay, I’ll be on my way in five minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow, Doc. Thanks.”
He pushed the end button and thrust the phone back in his pocket. The color had drained from his face, his jaw a tight line. He said flatly, “Del’s had another heart attack. A minor one, according to his family doctor.” He waved to the waiter. “We’ll leave as soon as I’ve paid the bill.”
So Cade loves his adoptive father, Tess thought, and felt emotion clog her throat. Cory hadn’t loved her. Ever.
She never cried. Couldn’t afford to. So why did she feel like crying now? She forced the tears down, watching Cade pass over his credit card.
What if Del Lorimer had another heart attack in the night, and died? She’d never meet him. Never find out if he really was her grandfather, or if this whole farrago was the product of an overeager investigator. But if Del was, by any chance, truly her grandfather, blood of her blood, shouldn’t she see him, find out if he was a replica of Cory or someone entirely different?
We…Cade had said a few moments ago. We’ll leave…she thoroughly disliked the way he’d taken it for granted that she’d go with him.
It was her choice, and only hers.
Stay or go.
CHAPTER THREE
TRYING to decide what she should do, Tess gazed at Cade in silence; he was frowning at the bill, his mind obviously elsewhere. What if he drove off the road because he was thinking about Del rather than his driving?
Somehow the decision had made itself. Tess said evenly, “If I come with you, I’ll need some clothes.”
“No time,” Cade said. “We can get anything you need tomorrow. Let’s go.”
As obediently as a well-trained hound, she followed him out of the dining room to his car; and felt her heart contract when it took him two attempts to get the key in the ignition. “Are you all right to drive?” she asked.
“Don’t worry—I won’t put you in the ditch.”
It’s you I’m worried about, not me. As she fastened her seat belt, the soft
