Since she’d taken her marriage vows, Katherine had never been unfaithful to Witt. Even in the past few years when he’d all but stopped trying to make love to her, she’d ignored the desire that curled restlessly through her blood when she saw a particularly interesting male. She’d had opportunities, plenty of them over the years-some suggested by Witt’s closest friends-but she’d laughed off the passes as if they were bad jokes and never given in to the lust that had some nights nearly driven her mad.
But she was tempted by Zachary. No doubt about it. She wasn’t alone. He could protest it as loudly as he wanted, but he was attracted to her. The last time they’d been together, when her temper had gotten the better of her and she’d forced him to dance with her at Witt’s party, she’d felt the hardness between his legs, saw the stain of embarrassment on his cheeks, knew that he’d responded to her.
Blowing smoke to the sky, she tried to turn her thoughts away from her secret attraction to Zach. However, if she wasn’t considering his seduction, her mind turned back to London and the deep depression that enveloped her whenever she thought of her little girl. Where was she? Still alive? Huddled and scared? Or dead already, brutally murdered? Oh, God, she couldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t! “London,” she whispered, her eyes filling with sudden tears again.
She took a long sip from the cool orange juice and hoped the vodka would calm her nerves. If only someone would hold her, place strong arms around her, whisper in her ear that everything would be all right…that London was safe and would be returning home. The inside of her chest seemed to cave in on itself.
She needed someone. Anyone. Zach.
Gritting her teeth against the mind-paralyzing fear that had been her constant companion for weeks, she snapped the paper open and pretended interest in the bond market when all the while she watched Zach over the top of the newspaper. Her eyes were hidden by her sunglasses and she was certain that Zach didn’t know that as she stared at him, she was beginning to plan his seduction.
Zach’s lungs burned and his shoulder was beginning to ache. He’d been in the pool fifteen minutes, hoping Kat would finish her drink and leave, but he’d had no such luck. It looked as if she’d parked herself indefinitely. He was relieved she’d finally emerged. It was weird for her to be locked in her room, hardly venturing out.
But then, these days, everything at the house was weird. The cops and FBI, the reporters clustered around the gates, Witt’s quiet rage and Kat’s isolation. Jason had moved back to the house and paced like a caged animal; Nelson, after following him around for a few days, had holed up in his room.
Zach didn’t trust anyone and thought people were always staring at him, as if he had any idea what had happened to London and the damned nanny.
Surfacing, he tossed the water from his hair and took in a huge gulp of air. He hoisted himself out of the pool and stood dripping because his towel was at the other end, near Kat, and ever since the party he’d wanted to avoid her. He was uncomfortable around her, partly because being near her reminded him of his fear for London, but partly because he was embarrassed about what had happened on the dance floor that night. He was even more humiliated because Kat knew that he’d gone to a hooker. A whore. Like he had to pay for it!
He’d had plenty of chances with girls his age, but he hadn’t been interested in some giggling ninny who would let him touch her tits in exchange for his class ring or some such garbage. Girls were always looking to fall in love and he wasn’t interested. He didn’t believe in love and knew he never would love anyone. His parents and his siblings had convinced him that love was a foolish notion. It just plain didn’t exist.
The cement was hot against the bottoms of his feet as he jogged the length of the pool and snatched up his towel. He was still sore and knew with his bruises and scar, he looked like hell.
Kat glanced up and offered him a blinding smile that caused his diaphragm to slam into his lungs. “You’re feeling better,” he said weakly, knowing she expected conversation.
“Yeah.”
She lifted her sunglasses to squint up at him. God, she was beautiful. Her lips were a slick, glossy pink and her cheekbones were carved gently. Standing above her, he could see down the column of her throat and lower still to the deep cleft between her breasts. Her tan line, faded somewhat, was still visible and if she moved just the right way, he was certain he’d catch a glimpse of her nipples. “No permanent damage?” she asked, as if she really cared.
“Looks that way.” He swiped the towel over his face and through his hair, trying to ignore the raw sensuality that seemed to radiate from her. Hell, why was she looking at him like that?
“That’s good. I was worried about you.” She stretched and the motion seemed somehow feline in the hot sun. A hot summer breeze kissed the back of his neck.
“Were you?” He didn’t believe her and he was suddenly wary.
She swallowed and licked her lips. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. “Yes…there’s so much that’s happened, some of it so awful.” Tears moistened her eyes and for the life of him he felt sorry for her. “Anyway, I know I’ve treated you badly-that display at the hotel was uncalled for. I was drunk and angry and…oh, God, Zach… I’m making a mess of this, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”
“Forget it,” he said, feeling his face turning a darker shade of red.
“I will. If you’ll forgive me.”
“Thanks.” Again the smile, though this time there were teardrops drizzling down her cheeks and he realized how devastated she was about the loss of her child.
He felt awkward and stupid for even thinking about her in any way sexual. She was grieving, for Christ’s sake. Nervously, he knotted the towel in his hands. “I…uh, look, don’t worry about London. She’ll turn up.”
“You think so?” She sounded so hopeful.
Did he do that-give her a sense of false hope about a poor little girl who might already be dead? He felt absolutely wretched. “I dunno, but…everybody’s looking for her…” It sounded lame, even to his own ears, and he noticed the ghost of pain crossing her eyes. Hell, he was just no good at this!
She reached up and grabbed his hand with hers. Heat swirled up his arm. “I hope so, Zach,” she whispered, blinking hard as her fingers tightened over his. A jolt of electricity kicked his heart into high gear. She looked so young suddenly, so vulnerable and small. He had to remind himself that this was Kat. “God, I hope so.” She used his arm as a brace and climbed to her feet, her body only inches from his. He barely noticed the lingering pain from his beating.
To his utter amazement, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss over his cheek. “Thanks for understanding, Zach. I needed a friend.” He turned his face, staring into her eyes, feeling her moist, smoky breath against his skin, half expecting her to kiss him again, but she smiled sadly and let go of his arm, then picked up her things and walked back to the house.
He was left standing by the pool, dripping, and wondering what the hell had just gone on.
Pain, as hot as if it erupted straight from the bowels of hell, shot through Witt’s chest. For a second he couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone had locked their fingers over his throat and was strangling him. Where were the pills? He yanked open the desk drawer and saw the vial in the pencil rack. Agony tore at his heart as he managed to retrieve the nitroglycerin pills and shove one under his tongue. He was nearly gasping now and waiting, his elbows propped on the leather desk pad, his head resting in his palms. Sweat broke out over his forehead and the damned intercom began to buzz impatiently. He didn’t answer and knew that Shirley, his secretary of more than twenty years, would get the message.
The buzzer stopped and five minutes later, he was collected again-the angina had passed and he straightened his tie. No one save McHenry knew about his condition and he planned on keeping his secret to himself. Witt hated weakness and this heart condition was just that…a sign that he wasn’t as strong as he once had been.
He reached for his humidor, opened the lid, and the heavy scent of Havana tobacco wafted to his nostrils. He grabbed a cigar, wedged it between his teeth, but didn’t light up. Not now. Not after the angina attack.
He pushed the intercom button, learned that Roger Phelps was waiting in the reception area of the offices of Danvers International, and growled at Shirley to show him in. Disgusted, he didn’t bother lighting up though he
