Книга - Fire and Ice

Fire and Ice
Diana Palmer


Like the heroine of one of her romances, bestselling author Margie Silver was willing to rise to Cal Van Dyne's challenge. The arrogant tycoon vowed that Margie's sister would not marry his younger brother, and Margie was just as determined that the wedding would take place.Margie expected Cal's assault but not the cynical game of love he played with her on his lavish Florida estate. Suddenly Margie was gambling with her sister's future–and her own–with a passionate adversary who made his own rules…until he met his match.







Like the heroine of one of her romances, bestselling author Margie Silver was willing to rise to Cal Van Dyne’s challenge. The arrogant tycoon vowed that Margie’s sister would not marry his younger brother, and Margie was just as determined that the wedding would take place. Margie expected Cal’s assault but not the cynical game of love he played with her on his lavish Florida estate. Suddenly Margie was gambling with her sister’s future—and her own—with a passionate adversary who made his own rules… until he met his match.


Fire and Ice

Diana Palmer






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Table of Contents

One (#ubd56cf90-5584-5a8f-aafc-e549c255563f)

Two (#u5c97182a-24a7-55c7-b1b1-65762bf2ac4e)

Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)


One

Margie Silver had known she would draw interested glances from male diners in the exclusive Atlanta restaurant where she sat waiting. The vivid color of the green satin dress she wore was stunning enough in itself, but the cut was its real attraction. Long-sleeved, the wraparound dress had a plunging neckline, and its front edges were joined only by a wide belt at the waist. The effect, with Margie’s long black hair and green eyes, was dynamite. The skirt peeked open to above the knee, revealing long, graceful sheer nylon stockings, that tapered down to small feet in sexy black high heels.

She sipped a glass of ginger ale, held in long, artistic fingers with pink-tipped nails. Margie might have looked like a high-fashion model, but she made her living writing sensuous historical romance novels as the notorious Silver McPherson. She wasn’t allowed to mention that fact tonight, however, because revelation of her flamboyant alter ego might put a damper on her sister Jan’s new romance. She had a hunch that this spur-of-the-moment dinner invitation cloaked a confrontation with Jan’s future brother-in-law, the tycoon, and Margie had deliberately set out to provoke, choosing her dress to startle.

Margie’s full red lips pursed irritatedly. She’d been in the middle of writing a particularly difficult scene when Jan called, breathlessly demanding to be met at the restaurant at seven. It was now half past seven, Jan was nowhere in sight, and Margie was furious.

She shifted in her chair, looking down at the satin dress in amusement. Jan would be horrified. She’d tried to impress on Margie the Van Dynes’ very conservative public image, and the older brother’s opinion of brassy women. She’d cautioned her older sister to be demure and had suggested that she dress like a nun. So naturally, Margie, being Margie and hating anything that sounded like an order, dragged out her brassiest dress and proceeded to use makeup like a sixty-year-old tart on the town.

Imagining Jan’s reaction—to say nothing of young Andrew Van Dyne’s and his elder brother’s—made her eyes sparkle. If Jan had really sprung an impromptu meeting between them, Margie was going to enjoy herself.

“Oh, Margie, please act your age!” Jan would groan when Margie did something characteristically zany—like standing that nude statue of Venus in the middle of the flower garden where poor old Mrs. James would be shocked by it every afternoon on her way to water her own flowers. At least the photo inside the cover of her latest novel, Blazing Passion, was only of her face—Margie had threatened to have it done in a negligee, and Jan had threatened to leave the country.

But Margie would go right ahead living as she pleased and thinking up new ways to shock Jan. Margie’s brief marriage had been responsible for much of that wild behavior. Her zaniness was a kind of camouflage to keep the world at bay, to cover her vulnerability. The sudden death of her husband after two long months of marriage had been almost a relief, leaving her disillusioned about men and intimacy and marriage. It had taught her one very real lesson—that you never knew other people until you lived with them. And she had every reason in the world to remember it.

She’d thought herself in love with Larry Silver. He was young and seemed to have a pleasant personality and a promising future as an attorney. They dated briefly, got married and soon discovered that they were completely unsuited to one another. When he died in a plane crash two months later, she had felt more guilt-ridden over the failed marriage than heartbroken. That had happened five years ago, when Margie was just twenty; she hadn’t taken life seriously since. It was, she told Jan, mental suicide to be serious, although she often thought that her younger sister saw right through her.

She took another sip of the ginger ale and sighed. If Jan and Andy didn’t arrive in the next ten minutes, she was leaving. She had a month left to meet her publisher’s deadline, and she didn’t have time for socializing with strangers. Despite Jan’s growing attachment to Andy, Margie had no desire to meet his brother.

She glared around her, feeling trapped. She knew “the tycoon,” as she had dubbed him, disapproved of his brother’s involvement with Jan. Jan was working as a legal secretary. The tycoon, however, wanted his brother matched with the debutante daughter of some Chicago society friends—not a nameless little Atlanta secretary. The debutante’s people were in retail clothing, while the Van Dynes were clothing manufacturers. It would be a merger made in heaven for Andrew’s brother.

She felt a tingling at the back of her neck, and turned to find herself staring into the piercing dark eyes of a man in the doorway. The impact of those scowling eyes, even across the width of the room, almost made her drop her glass. She’d never seen eyes like that, in a face like that. The man was huge, and he had a broad, hard face that might have been carved out of teak. His eyes were instantly hostile. Margie found herself fascinated by them. Why should a total stranger stare at her like that, with such open antagonism?

The disapproval on his face amused her and without thinking, she pursed her full lips and formed a very visible kiss, batting her long eyelashes and then sending him a come-hither smile before she turned back around.

She put down her glass to smother an attack of laughter. The look on that man’s face had been worth gold. Bored and irritated herself, she was just beginning to enjoy this. Jan was going to be horrified when she learned how her sister had been passing the time.

A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to find the stranger looming over her with a face so stern it would have stopped traffic.

“Well, if it isn’t Mount Rushmore,” Margie murmured with a wicked smile. She half turned, leaning one arm over the back of her chair to look him up and down. “Sit down, honey, and have a drink with me.”

He didn’t smile. He looked as if he never had. His eyes wandered over her with growing disapproval. “No thanks. I have a prior engagement with a young lady.” He stressed the last word, as if to imply that it could not be applied to Margie.

She liked his voice immediately. It was deep and faintly rough, very masculine and cultured. “Blind date?” She laughed.

He shook his head. “Social obligation,” he said as though it were a distasteful one.

“Well, I’m a native,” she drawled. “I might know her.”

He looked as if he seriously doubted that. “Her name is Janet Banon.”

Margie blinked. “Jan’s my sister,” she said without thinking, sitting up straight. Her eyes sized him up again, registering the returning hostility in his face. “What do you want with my sister?”

Instead of answering, he pulled out a chair and sat down as if he owned the table. He signaled a nearby waiter. “Bring me a scotch on the rocks,” he told the white-jacketed waiter. “And a…Tom Collins for the lady,” he added, glancing at the tall glass in her hand.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said politely, departing.

“And I take back the last word of that sentence,” the man told Margie evenly. “A lady doesn’t make blatant advances to strange men in restaurants.”

Margie’s green eyes sparkled. “You wrong me, sir,” she said in her best Georgia drawl. “When I make advances to a man, I always take my clothes off first.”

He cocked an eyebrow, appraising the expanse of skin visible in the long slit of her neckline. “I can’t imagine that that would give you any advantage,” he said flatly.

Always conscious of her small measurements, she glared at him. “Are you always so forthright?” she asked.

“Play with fire and you get burned,” he replied curtly. His dark eyes pinned hers. “I don’t like permissive women who dress like tarts. Nor do I care for women who get drunk before a meal and solicit men.”

“How dare you…!” she began tritely, lost for words.

“Shut up,” he said with the kind of authority that commanded instant obedience, even from renegade romance authors.

He paused until the waiter, depositing their drinks along with a check, had departed before he lifted his dark head to glare at her. “I understand that my brother wants to marry your sister. Over my dead body.”

She gave him a quick glance. “Andrew’s older brother?” she asked politely. “The one who makes women’s underthings?” she added with a wicked smile.

If she had hoped to embarrass him, she didn’t succeed. He leaned back in his chair, sipping his scotch, watching her with unblinking dark eyes. “We make a superior line of undergarments,” he replied. His gaze fell once again on the bodice of her dress. “Along with a lightly padded bra that would do wonders for you.”

The ginger ale sloshed out of the glass all over her napkin and part of the tablecloth, while her face flushed for the first time in five years.

“You’ll have to excuse God for my shortcomings; he threw me together between wars,” she growled.

He flexed his broad shoulders, and she noticed for the first time the elegant cut of his evening clothes, and how well black and white suited him. He was a fashion plate—not quite handsome, not really young—but hardly over the hill, either. Margie judged him to be about forty, or slightly under. Those hard lines in his face were the marks of high pressure, not age. He had the look of a human bulldozer.

“Why isn’t your sister here?” he asked coldly.

Margie also leaned back, staring at him. “Jan didn’t give me any explanations. She asked me to meet her here at seven and hung up. You know as much about it as I do. Probably more,” she added wickedly. “I understand you tell your brother what clothes to put on every morning when he gets up. Do you also tell him which girls to date?”

His head tilted slightly to one side and his eyes narrowed. “Shall I be blunt?” he asked quietly. “Your sister would fit into my family the way a dormouse would fit into a cat convention. My world—and Andrew’s—is best described as a social round of civilized warfare. Your sister, from what I’ve seen, couldn’t fight her way out of a domestic dispute.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Margie replied thoughtfully. “She used to play tackle football when we were kids, and she still tells me what to do.”

“You look as if you could use some guidance,” he replied with maddening carelessness, staring pointedly at the dress.

“It’s a designer dress,” she returned.

“It would probably look better on the designer.”

“He’s a man.”

“Exactly.”

She took a deep breath and her eyes glittered. “Well, Mr. Undergarment Tycoon, you’ll just have to excuse me. It’s pretty obvious Jan got me here to meet you, and now that I’ve had that dubious honor, I’m going home.”

She started to stand up, but a steely hand caught her wrist and jerked her back down. She was startled as much by the unexpected action as by the tingle of pleasure that ran up her arm at his touch.

“Not yet,” he said in a deep, low tone. “My brother isn’t marrying your sister. I’ll see to it.”

“I couldn’t be more pleased,” she replied hotly. “Because I don’t want bad blood in my family, either!”

“Watch it, honey. I bite,” he cautioned.

“On the neck?” she asked with a venomous smile.

“Andy and I are going down to Florida to visit our mother for a few weeks,” he mused. “That should cool his ardor. And I don’t think there’s much danger of your sister following him.”

“Why?” Margie demanded. “Because she’s a secretary with a low bank balance?”

“Something like that.”

“For your information,” she said softly, “I can afford to charter her a plane to Florida if that’s what she wants. And I will. Not that I want Andy for a brother-in-law, you understand,” she added. “But because I don’t like stuffed shirts with big bank accounts telling my family what to do.”

His eyes were calculating. “Drawing battle lines?” he asked softly. “I’ve never lost a skirmish, Miss Banon.”

“My name isn’t Banon,” she said stiffly. “It’s Silver.”

He cocked an eyebrow, glancing at her ringless left hand. “My condolences to your husband, although I’d bet good money that you’re no longer living with him.” He laughed shortly when she blushed. “On the button, I presume?” He sat forward, leaning his forearms on the table, and his eyes were threatening. “I don’t intend for Andy to marry your sister, regardless of whether or not there’s money in your family. It wouldn’t work. I don’t want another broken marriage to add to my mother’s heartaches.”

Her own eyes went to his ringless left hand and she smiled demurely. “No longer living with your wife?” she asked.

His face went harder, if that was possible. “I rue the day I agreed to let Andrew manage the Atlanta branch of the company,” he said coldly, getting gracefully to his feet. “But fortunately, it’s a problem I can solve. Keep out of it, Mrs. Silver. I won’t tolerate your interference.”

“What will you do, Mr. Van Dyne, honey, have me flogged?” she asked with a sweet smile. “Why don’t you pack your little ole carpetbag and go back up Nawth where you belong?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “If you’re going to toss old history at me, Silver, you’d better remember who won that war. Ciao.” And he walked away, leaving her with the bill.

* * *

“Leaving me to pay the bill,” she grumbled when Jan returned to the Victorian house she shared with Margie. “Calling me names, threatening to break up you and Andy…what kind of man is he?”

“A law unto himself.” Jan sighed, dropping down on the couch. “Oh, Margie, I had such high hopes that if I didn’t show up with Andy, you and Cannon might hit it off….”

“Cannon?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

“That’s his name, although most people call him `Cal,’” Jan said miserably. “I’m sorry, really I am. You see, Andy wants to invite me down to the family’s beach house in Panama City, Florida for a couple of weeks. I want to go, so that I can get to know Andy’s mother, but Cannon won’t hear of it. He’s been so dead set against our getting married, and I thought—” she glanced at Margie and grimaced “—well, I thought meeting you might change his mind. You can charm anyone when you set your mind to it. I didn’t realize you were going dressed like a hooker,” she added regretfully.

Margie struck a pose. “I must be getting better as an actress.” She grinned. “I sure convinced your future brother-in-law that my reputation was in shreds.”

“Margie!” came the groaned reply.

“Are you sure you want to marry Andy?” Margie asked with genuine concern. “Just think, you’d have to go through life having that human bulldozer order you around.”

“We wouldn’t have to see Cannon all that often,” Jan assured her. “He lives in Chicago, you know.”

She turned away, toying with a statuette on the mantle. “Is he married?” she asked carelessly.

“Not anymore. His wife was making time with just about everything in pants. He divorced her, and Andy says the only use he has for women now isn’t printable.”

“I can’t imagine any woman desperate enough to get in his bed,” Margie retorted, her eyes glittering.

“They say he’s much sought-after in Chicago,” Jan mused, watching her sister’s reaction with great interest.

“Well, he wouldn’t be in Atlanta,” Margie grumbled. “And never by me!”

Jan shook her head and frowned. Margie was a lot like Cannon Van Dyne, her sister thought, although she probably didn’t realize it. Margie hid her inner feelings under all that clowning, but she wasn’t as carefree as she pretended. Jan had been there the day Lawrence Silver died in that plane crash, and only she knew the truth about Margie’s unhappy marriage. Margie had avoided men ever since, except on a friendly basis. She wanted no one near enough to hurt her again.

But she seemed to be reacting to Cannon in a totally alien way. Margie wasn’t usually antagonistic, but her eyes glittered when she mentioned Andy’s brother. It was the most violent emotion she’d shown in five years.

“Cannon’s an attractive man,” Jan murmured.

“That big stone wall?” Margie turned away. “I don’t even want to talk about him. Imagine, leaving me the bill for his scotch and water, and ordering me a drink I didn’t even touch! I ought to have the bill embedded in a block of concrete and mailed to him special delivery, collect.” Her green eyes brightened. “I wonder how I could do it….”

Jan couldn’t repress a grin. Margie was incorrigible.

The jangling of the phone cut into the conversation. Jan ran for it, her eyes lighting up at once when she held the receiver to her ear.

“It’s Andy,” she whispered to Margie, who nodded and left the room, knowing her sister would appreciate some privacy,

She wandered out into the long hall. On the way to her bedroom, her eyes fell on the wood umbrella stand she and Larry had bought soon after their wedding. They’d been browsing in an antique store—Margie’s passion for the past irritated him, and he’d only gone under protest—when her eyes had fallen on the handcarved wooden relic. She’d bought it against his wishes, because it had been expensive. She’d argued that she had money of her own, a little that her grandmother McPherson had left her, and he’d stormed out of the shop in a huff, leaving her to handle the transaction.

They’d had a violent argument about it that night, and he’d forced her in bed—not for the first time—leaving her hurt and bruised and frightened. The next morning he’d dressed to go on his fatal trip while she studied him with tormented eyes. She’d watched him leave the room with the most incredible kind of pain in her heart, wondering what had happened to their marriage, longing to be free of him.

She shuddered at the memory, glaring down at the umbrella stand. Why had she left it here, in a house that now held no memento of him, not even a picture? Perhaps it was some subconscious thing, she told herself, to keep alive the guilt that had never gone away. She’d wished herself free, and he’d died. Somehow, she felt responsible for the plane crash—despite the fact that she had had nothing to do with it.

She stared down at the antique. Perhaps she’d give it to Mrs. James next door. She smiled as she went into her blue and white bedroom. Mrs. James was really a doll, despite her strict puritanical streak and her fervent disapproval of her notorious neighbor. Margie actually encouraged that disapproval, for reasons she’d never worked out. She wasn’t really the uninhibited creature her readers believed her to be. The woman inside the flamboyant shell was actually very vulnerable, and achingly lonely. But her marriage had taught her one thing—that appearances were not to be trusted. She never wanted to take the chance of being trapped again. She never wanted another domineering man in her life, and even as the thought registered, she saw a mental picture of Cannon Van Dyne. She shivered involuntarily. He was like Larry, she thought. All arrogant command, the kind of man who’d want a clinging, obedient woman with no independence and no spirit. He’d smother her….

The bedroom door burst open as Margie was drawing her mint green nightgown over her head, and she turned, smiling at Jan’s excited face. Her younger sister so rarely glowed like that. Jan was such a shy, gentle creature.

“Oh, Margie, we’ve got another chance!” she said, eyeing her older sister warily.

“We?” Margie asked with raised eyebrows. She smoothed the gown over her hips and rested her hands on them. “Okay, shrimp, what have you got me into this time?”

Jan sat down on the bed, running a nervous hand through her short hair. “Margie, you love me, don’t you?”

Margie melted at the nervous young voice. “Oh, darling, you know I do,” she said, sitting down to hug her sister affectionately. “You’re all I’ve got in the world. Don’t you know what you mean to me?”

Jan bit her lip, returning the hug. “I hope you know that I feel the same,” she murmured. “Without you to hold on to, I don’t know how I would have survived. Mother dead, Dad drinking himself to death while he made a public spectacle of all of us, Granny McPherson fighting to keep us….” She looked up. “Granny was good to us, but she wasn’t a warm person. The only affection I ever remember came from you.”

Margie sighed. “Same here.”

“I’ll never forget the way you took me in after Granny died—despite Larry’s objections.” Jan had never liked Larry; he’d always made her feel like an outsider. She’d had no place to go except to Margie. There were no other relatives who could have taken her. Boarding school was out because of the expense, so Margie had pleaded and begged until Larry gave in and let Jan live with them. But he’d never liked the arrangement, and he’d been cruelly vocal about it.

Jan had never pried into Margie’s marriage. And her sister had put on a very convincing face for the world, but Jan saw through it. It was impossible to live in the same house with two people and not sense the undercurrents.

“I never should have married him,” Margie admitted, remembering. “He seemed so different than he really was. And we married far too soon. Three weeks isn’t nearly enough time to decide something so important.”

Jan touched Margie’s shoulder gently. “We were almost destitute, and at the end of Granny’s legacy,” Jan said gently. “I think that surely influenced you. Larry seemed to be able to support you…us.” She lowered her eyes. “I put a terrible strain on your marriage, didn’t I?”

“No!” Margie said vehemently. “No, the strain was there from the beginning. And what did he expect me to do, throw you out in the street? You’re my sister. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Jan said, leaning on Margie’s shoulder.

“Anyway, he seemed to be such a nice man. I didn’t know that he liked to drink and party every night. He never seemed to overindulge before we were married.”

“And you would rather have been walking in the woods or fighting the government over conservation measures.” Jan laughed. “But Margie, all men aren’t like Larry, you know.”

Margie’s expression was wistful. “How can you be sure about a man until you live with him?” she asked. “I don’t trust my own judgment anymore.”

Jan’s eyes were faintly troubled as she studied her sister. Few people were privileged to see Margie like this, with the mask lowered, the uncertainty showing. It hurt her terribly to think that Margie might go through life like this because of her failed marriage. Like most people in love, Jan wanted everyone to be as happy as she was. But she didn’t know how to help her sister.

“We’ve gotten off the track,” Margie murmured, the smile back on her face like magic. “What were you so excited about? A chance to make Mount Rushmore change his mind?”

Jan blinked. “Mount Rushmore?”

“Cannon Van Dyne.”

“Uh, yes, actually.” Her eyes were wary after the long conversation, and she hesitated. “Andy’s made a dinner reservation for four at Louis Dane’s tomorrow night.”

Margie straightened and walked over to the curtains, her back as stiff as old Mrs. McPherson’s. “Four?”

Jan nodded. “You, me, Andy…”

“And…?”

Jan swallowed. “Cannon Van Dyne.”


Two

Margie’s green eyes took on a peculiar glitter as she said, “No! Absolutely not!”

“You both got off to a bad start,” Jan reminded her. “And you helped—you know you did—with that horrible dress. I wasn’t deserting you; I just thought if the two of you were left alone together…” She groaned. “Oh, I made a mess of it myself by not telling you why I wanted you to go to the restaurant. But Margie, you don’t know how important Cannon’s approval is. I can’t ask Andy to give up his family and his inheritance all at once just for my sake. I can’t!” She gave Margie a pleading glance. “And I can’t fight Cannon alone; I’m not strong enough. I can’t even pretend that I’ve got a chance against him.”

“And you think I have?” Margie asked.

“Yes, because you aren’t afraid of him,” Jan said. “I’ve seen you charm men. When you turn on that smile and act like yourself, you draw them like flies.”

Margie looked shocked. “If you think I’d deliberately lead that bulldozer on…”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Jan said quickly. “Never would I do that to you. But you have a knack for getting people to listen to you, for drawing them out. You could convince Cannon that I’m not too young and stupid and unaccomplished to become a Van Dyne,” she continued, unabashed.

“I’m not sure I want you to become one,” Margie said with a flash of resentment. “You know very well how I feel about cliques and snobbery. And for that matter, don’t you think it’s time you told Andy about Dad’s drinking? You can’t hide your past forever.”

Jan nodded her head, looking guilty for a moment. “I know. I was hoping to tell him down in Panama City. It’s just that our backgrounds are so different. And Cannon doesn’t think I can cope with their lifestyle—or make Andy happy.”

“You most certainly could,” Margie argued. “You have poise and terrific manners. And you learned how to organize dinner parties for your boss, with his wife’s help….”

“See?” Jan grinned. “You’re already sure I could make the grade. All you have to do is sell me to Cannon.”

“Slavery was abolished by Lincoln,” Margie pointed out.

“Margie!”

“The tycoon wouldn’t listen,” came the sullen reply. “He’s a card-carrying chauvinist with delusions of upper-crust grandeur. So arrogant…imagine, a man who makes ladies’ underthings being arrogant!” Her face contorted and she burst into giggles. “Jan, suppose you get Andy to filch me a lacy set of underwear for my statue of Venus…imagine what Mrs. James would say!”

Jan couldn’t repress a laugh. Margie, in this mood, was hilarious. “Okay, I’ll do it. Now will you please come to dinner with us tomorrow night? Maybe you can get me that invitation to Panama City.”

Margie sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might be more of a detriment to you than an asset? I ought to be horsewhipped for deliberately giving him the wrong impression tonight. I don’t even know why I did it.” She groaned, swinging back her long, tangled hair. “It’s this awful deadline I’m on, with only a month to go, and the book isn’t going well at all….” Her eyes met Jan’s. “Darling, I’m sorry. I’ll try to make amends tomorrow night. I’ll bite my tongue in half if it will help, truly I will. And one way or another, we’ll get you that invitation to Panama City!”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Jan said affectionately. She hugged her sister hard. “It will all work out. You’ll see.”

* * *

But as Margie dressed for dinner the following evening, she wasn’t convinced of that. She stared at her reflection in the mirror with grave misgivings.

Her dress was simple—a mass of black chiffon with a slightly sensuous v-neck surrounded by ruffles. She had put her rebellious black hair in a high knot on top of her head, with wisps falling around her face, and schooled herself to look sedate. She was sparing with her makeup and chose a perfume with a light, flowery, almost innocent scent. She looked so different from the practiced seductress of the previous night that she imagined Cannon Van Dyne might not even recognize her.

When Jan saw her irrepressible sister, she had to smother a laugh. “My, what a difference,” she said. “You remind me of Grandmother McPherson.”

“Well, it’s her house. Or it was.” She sighed. “I guess some of her rubbed off on me. At least this won’t shock your horrible future brother-in-law.”

“Care to bet?” Jan grinned.

Margie sighed, noticing how lovely Jan looked in her pale green sheath dress with its matching accessories. She was so radiant, so obviously in love with her Andy. Margie liked Andy herself. He was so open and friendly.

“Well, shall we go down?”

“Better, I guess,” Jan said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

Margie went downstairs into the living room with her sister and sat nervously on the edge of the sofa.

“Will you relax?” Jan teased. “I’m the one who should be nervous. I’ve never been around Cannon for longer than the time it took to say hello.”

The doorbell rang suddenly, and Margie actually jumped.

Jan stared at her incredulously. She’d never seen Margie so keyed up. “It’s okay,” she soothed, touching her sister’s rigid shoulder as she went to answer the door.

Margie stood up, gathering her nerve. He wouldn’t get the best of her, she thought stubbornly. She wouldn’t let him put her down again.

She heard voices: Andy’s pleasant, friendly one—and a deeper, harsher one.

Her fingers clutched her purse as Andy came into the room, followed by Cannon. Andy was almost Cannon’s height, but he lacked the bulk and muscular trim of his older brother. He had light brown hair and light brown eyes, and a face that combined strength and tenderness. He was good-looking, but Jan obviously thought he was the handsomest man alive—if her expression was anything to go by. Andy put a protective arm around her and bent to kiss her softly, despite Cannon’s disapproving glare.

“I think I’ve got that invitation—from Mother herself,” Andy whispered to Jan before he lifted his head. “Evening, Margie,” he added in a louder voice.

“Good evening,” Margie said quietly, her nervous gaze going to Cannon. He was taking in her appearance with an I-don’t-believe-it stare, and seemed to have missed the hushed exchange between Andy and Jan.

Cannon looked more formidable than ever. His evening clothes accentuated his masculinity until it was threatening. The dark material clung to powerful muscles that seemed to ripple under the expensive cloth as he moved. He was graceful for a man his size, and light on his feet. His hands were dark and big, and beautiful in their own way. He wore only a single gold signet ring, and a thin, fabulously expensive gold watch nestled in the thick hairs at the back of his wrist. Margie wondered if the rest of his sensuous body was covered in that same dark hair, and she caught her breath at her uncharacteristic thought.

Cannon’s thick hair gleamed almost black under the light; his deep-set brown eyes glared at Margie.

“Shall we go?” he asked brusquely. “I’d like to get an early night.”

“God forbid that we should hold you up, Mr. Van Dyne,” Margie said sweetly as she picked up her shawl and threw it around her shoulders.

“Don’t worry, you won’t,” he said quietly, watching her. “I didn’t picture you in a Victorian house, Mrs. Silver.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I can imagine what kind of house you did picture me in,” she said with a faint smile. “Sorry to have shocked you.”

“It will take more than your surroundings to convince me that my first impression wasn’t more accurate,” he replied.

“Why, Mr. Van Dyne, honey,” Margie murmured, batting her long eyelashes, “how you do go on.”

“You go on,” he replied, standing aside to let her lead them through the door, “before I lose what little patience I have left.”

Jan threw a worried glance her way, but Margie didn’t see it. She was already rushing to get out the door Cannon held open. She had a vague notion that he’d enjoy slamming it in her face.

* * *

The restaurant was crowded, but Cannon immediately attracted the attention of the ma;afitre d’, who seated them at a table beside an imitation waterfall, complete with lush vegetation.

“My God, the swamp,” Andy muttered as Cannon ordered from the wine steward.

Margie grinned. “Did you think to bring mosquito netting?” she whispered.

“We may need one of those sticky strips to catch the bugs….”

“Would you two children mind behaving while we’re in public?” Cannon asked curtly, glaring from one to the other.

“Yes, Daddy,” Margie said demurely, lowering her eyes.

Cannon seemed to swell with indignation as the waiter handed him a glass of wine from the bottle he’d ordered. He took a sip and nodded, waiting until the waiter filled the other glasses and left their menus before he spoke.

“You two may not be wildlife enthusiasts,” Cannon commented gruffly, while Margie almost burst out laughing at the misapprehension, “but you might at least appreciate the engineering that was responsible for this waterfall.”

Margie didn’t dare look at Andy; it would have been disastrous. Instead, she buried her nose in the menu. “It’s very nice,” she agreed, with a straight face. “If they forget to bring water and glasses, we can always dip in here.”

“Oh, Margie.” Jan groaned, burying her face in her hands.

A smothered, strangled sound emerged from Andy’s mouth before he slapped his napkin against it and faked a cough.

Cannon’s big hands were crushing a part of the menu. “If either of you order anything with alcohol in it, I’ll walk out and leave you,” he told Andy and Margie. “My God, are you already high on the scent of the wine?”

Margie lifted her composed face and glared at him.

“Margie,” Jan squeaked, “you did promise….”

Margie nodded, moving the wineglass toward Cannon. “You’re absolutely right, darling, I did. I won’t even wade in the fountain this time,” she added.

Cannon scowled at her. “How old did you say you were? Twelve?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “No fair,” she said. “This is supposed to be an opportunity for us to learn to get along.”

“It will take more than this,” he said flatly.

“Amen,” she agreed. “But I happen to be hungry, if you don’t mind not spoiling my appetite. I skipped breakfast and lunch.”

“That typewriter is going to be the death of you,” Jan murmured, and caught herself barely in time. She’d begged Margie not to mention her profession just yet. Cannon had enough against the flamboyant brunette without putting such a weapon in his hands.

“Typewriter?” Cannon caught the word immediately and stared pointedly at Margie.

Margie thought fast. “I do a political opinion column for our local weekly newspaper,” she said.

“And you skipped meals because that took all day?” he asked suspiciously.

“I do a political opinion column every week,” she returned, “and I have to keep at least two weeks ahead in case I decide to run away to Bermuda with my latest boyfriend.”

“God help your poor husband,” he growled.

“My husband is dead, Mr. Van Dyne,” she said quietly, sobering at once. “He was killed in an airplane crash five years ago. Now if you don’t mind, it’s a subject I’d rather we closed. It’s very painful.”

He looked embarrassed, studying her for a long moment before turning his disconcerting gaze to his menu.

Margie studied her own. Even though she could now afford the prices at better restaurants, these staggered her. Nothing was under twenty dollars and the least expensive item was a simple chicken breast stuffed with a ham and cheese filling. She wasn’t fond of chicken, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be obligated to Cannon Van Dyne, even for a meal.

“Shall I translate for you?” Cannon asked with grudging politeness when the waiter returned and stood beside her.

She smiled with studied sweetness. “How kind,” she murmured demurely, “but I think I can struggle through it.” She looked up at the waiter. “Je prends la poule cordon bleu, s’il vous pla;afit,” she said in flawless French, “des pommes de terre Louis et des choux de Bruxelles.”

The waiter grinned at her, writing it all down. “Avec plaisir, madame,” he replied. “Monsieur?”

Cannon shot her a glare while he ordered himself a steak, a baked potato, and a green salad. The order was given in clipped English and he was still glaring at her when the waiter went around to take the rest of the order from Andy.

“Not bad,” he said coolly, studying her. “Your French is quite good. Do you speak other languages?”

“Spanish,” she told him. “Italian. A little Arabic and some Hebrew. I love languages. They were my passion when I went to college.”

“What was your major?”

“Journalism,” she said. “I only went for two years, though.”

He frowned. “Why did you leave?”

Her face closed. “I got married.”

“Margie’s a gourmet cook,” Jan told Cannon when the silence lingered after the waiter had departed. “She’s quite good at it.”

“Is she?” Cannon asked, glancing toward Margie. “What’s your specialty?”

“Goose,” she shot back.

Something flared briefly in his dark eyes. “Thinking of mine?” he murmured softly. “Forget it, honey, that’s been tried by experts.”

Her green eyes sparkled. “I do pretty well with buttered toadstools and deadly nightshade,” she added. “But you’d probably thrive on that kind of diet.”

“Margie!” Jan groaned.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cannon told the younger woman. “She can handle herself, and so can I.” His dark eyes gleamed as he leaned back in his chair, carelessly holding the wineglass in his graceful hand. “I don’t mind stimulating conversation at the dinner table. It’s rather refreshing.”

“Why?” Margie asked sweetly. “Do people usually dive under the table when they disagree with you?”

He cocked his head. “It’s safer,” he murmured.

“By the way,” Andy interrupted, taking matters into his own hands, “I called Mother earlier this evening to tell her Jan was coming down to Panama City with us.”

Cannon lifted a bushy eyebrow at Andy’s confident tone. “So she told me. I had a conversation with her myself, and I’ve decided it might not be a bad idea for Jan to visit, after all. As a matter of fact, I suggested that Mrs. Silver might want to accompany her sister.”

The three of them stared at him in surprise, Jan and Andy elated, Margie horrified. “I don’t do a great deal of traveling, Mr. Van Dyne,” she finally said quietly. “And I do have certain…obligations.”

“You can take the typewriter with you,” Jan promised, her eyes pleading. Margie knew her sister was hoping she wouldn’t do anything to upset the apple cart.

Cannon’s eyebrows rose. “Do you have some new kind of fetish?”

“I most certainly do not,” Margie replied tightly. “I simply take my responsibilities seriously. The newspaper depends on my column….”

“You may certainly bring your typewriter, then,” he said.

“You can teach it to surf,” Andy put in, grinning.

Margie grinned back. “I’m still trying to teach it the alphabet,” she returned, winking at Jan.

“At least promise that you’ll consider the invitation,” Jan begged, and Margie nodded her agreement.

Cannon didn’t say anything, but he watched her. It was unnerving, that steady, unblinking scrutiny. Against her will, she looked up, and found her gaze trapped. Some faint sensation began to flower inside her—a tickling along her nerves, a trembling excitement that she’d never before felt. Electricity seemed to flow from his eyes to hers, so that she had to tear her gaze away before she burned up.

She lifted her fork and almost dropped it. She was more unsettled than she’d thought, she told herself.

After dinner, they went across the street to a disco, where Margie found herself alone with Cannon when Jan and Andy wandered off to dance to the throbbing, deafening music.

Cannon lit a cigarette with steady fingers and sipped the coffee he’d ordered for himself and Margie. He looked as out of place as Margie felt. She would rather have been back sitting by that little waterfall—she had only belittled it to irritate him.

“Having fun, honey?” he asked mockingly.

She gave him her sweetest smile. “Just as much fun as you are, Mr. Van Dyne,” she replied, raising her voice to make him hear her. “Don’t y’all just love this quaint little place?”

He glared at her and took another sip of his coffee. He apparently liked it black, because she hadn’t seen him take cream all evening. It wasn’t surprising. Somehow it suited his image.

“My God, I’m going deaf,” he said after a minute, pushing the cup aside. He had an actor’s voice, soft dark velvet even when it was raised. “Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here.”

She obeyed him only because the noise was deafening her, too. He went and said something to Andy before he came back to escort her out the door into the warm night air. She moved away from his hard fingers as soon as possible, disliking the sensations their touch caused on her bare arm.

“Where are we going?” she asked, glancing up at him. She was of above-average height, but it was a long way to his face. Just the sight of him would frighten away nine out of ten muggers, and she felt oddly safe with him.

He cocked an eyebrow and glanced down at her with a vague smile. “Forget it,” he murmured, erroneously assuming that her look was flirtatious. “You’re not well-rounded enough for my taste.”

Her eyes felt as if they were bulging. “Mister, you are not only insulting, you are insufferable,” she bit out.

“What happened to the sweet little Southern belle I picked up at your home?” he queried.

“She’s just fired off that cannon in Charleston harbor,” she flared back. “And you can forget that hundred-year-old conflict. I don’t lose.”

His eyes gleamed back at her. “Neither do I.”

“There’s always a first time.”

He chuckled softly as he escorted her back to the big Lincoln. He put her in the passenger side and climbed in at the wheel.

“Where are we going?” she asked again.

“Nowhere. I told Andy to finish that dance and come on out.” He threw a careless arm across the back of the seat and looked, really looked, at her, until a faint flush rose in her cheeks.

“I have all my own teeth,” she said. “And despite your opinion of it, everything you see is genuine.”

“A far cry from the lady of the evening,” he said, watching her eyes glitter at him. “Where did you put her?”

“Back into my Halloween bag of disguises,” she muttered. She shrugged. “Jan told me to dress conservatively and rush down to that restaurant for dinner last night. I was in the middle of a…of something, and I didn’t want to be dragged out….”

“So you set out to embarrass her as much as possible?” he asked.

“I had a feeling she’d invited you and Andy,” Margie admitted with a wry smile. “She’d told me you were very conservative yourself and that I must behave.”

“Conservative.” He mulled over the word and a faint smile momentarily softened the hard lines of his broad face. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but I think conservative is a new one.”

“You wear traditionally styled clothes and drive a classy car,” she pointed out.

“It puts my adversaries into a false state of ease,” he murmured.

She was beginning to realize that. He was a worrying puzzle; none of the prefabricated pieces she’d imagined him to be seemed to fit together.

“You’re devious, Mr. Van Dyne,” she said.

“I’m careful, Mrs. Silver,” he returned. “If I make a mistake, people lose their jobs. I give the image the corporation needs—in public.”

She studied the unyielding lines of his body. “And in private?” she asked absently.

He half turned in the seat and looked straight into her eyes. “Do you make a habit of flirting with strange men?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Not really,” she replied honestly. “You looked instantly hostile and disapproving. It got my dander up.”

“You aren’t used to disapproval?”

“Only from Mrs. James.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“My next-door neighbor,” she explained with an impish smile. “Very strait-laced, like my grandmother McPherson, who raised Jan and me. She takes exception to my nude statue of Venus in the backyard.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You keep a nude statue… I’m not surprised.” He chuckled. “It does seem to fit the picture I’m getting of you.”

And it was completely false, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Let him think her flamboyant and forward and sensual. It would keep such a man at bay.

“Do you sell a lot of…underwear?”

He sat back up, looking intimidating and calculating and just faintly amused. “You’d better leave that subject, honey, or you may get in over your head. I’m a good fourteen years your senior, and I’d be willing to bet that I’ve done a hell of a lot more living than you have.”

“I don’t intimidate easily,” she replied.

“I believe you. In fact, it makes you more interesting than I had thought at first. Women’s lib may be all the rage these days, but I hate like hell to be chased and fawned over.”

She studied his hard face for a long moment. “You are chased, aren’t you?” she asked seriously. “Because you’re wealthy and powerful, and some women would do anything to be part of that world.”

He looked as if she’d surprised him—and he wasn’t accustomed to surprises. “Yes,” he replied.

“Is that what your wife married you for?” she asked quietly.

His eyes flared dangerously. “That’s a subject I don’t discuss.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I’m a rather private person myself,” she admitted, finding him surprisingly easy to talk to.

He watched her, scowling, for a long time. He made her uneasy; he rattled her. She couldn’t remember a man ever affecting her so violently.

“Enigma,” he murmured absently. “You don’t fit into the usual category.”

“The line of women pleading to be taken into your bed?” she suggested. “Or did you have another category in mind?”

“If that was meant to shock, it fell short of the goal,” he said softly. “You’re very much on the defensive with me. Why?”

She didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “Ladies don’t discuss such subjects, anyway,” she drawled.

“Oh, haul down the flag, Margie,” he growled. “I’m tired of the pose. A little of that accent goes a long way.”

Her eyes gleamed. “And I’m getting pretty tired of you, too, Mr. Tycoon. I don’t like being taken apart and analyzed! And by the way, I find your accent just as grating as you seem to find mine, you carpetbagger!”

He burst out laughing. “Will it ease your mind if I tell that a grandmother of mine was born and raised in Charleston?”

“Not much, no,” she said. She was losing this battle of words, and she didn’t like it. He wasn’t what she’d expected.

“What’s wrong, honey, have you given up trying to charm me?”

She glanced at him. “I’d have more luck trying to charm a sweet potato,” she commented.

He chuckled deep in his throat. “You might at that.” He reached out suddenly and caught her shoulder, jerking her close enough to smell the rich fragrance of his cologne while his head tilted back and he looked down his arrogant nose at her. “Whether you know it or not, you’re coming to Panama City. And if you try that sweet seduction on me again, you’d better remember something: I’ve been married and women are no strangers to my bed. I’m not a gentle lover, Margie.”

She actually gasped at the insinuation. “As if I care,” she managed weakly.

“I’ve known women like you,” he said levelly, his eyes holding her relentlessly. “You flirt and charm outrageously, but at the first sign of passion, you turn around and run. It took me a while to get your measure, but I’ve got it now, and you’d better look out. Throw yourself at me in Panama City and I’ll take you on the damned beach.”

She felt the threat all the way to her toes as he freed her and moved back into his own seat to light another cigarette, as calm as if he’d been out for a stroll. “And for the record, all your scheming isn’t going to help your sister. There is no way, repeat no way,” he said, his shadowed dark eyes like glittering slits, “that I am going to give my approval to that marriage.”

“Then why invite us to Panama City? For target practice?”

“I have my reasons,” he said enigmatically.

“You won’t even give Jan a chance,” she accused.

“I don’t dare,” he returned sharply. “I know the obstacles. You don’t. Your way of life and mine are as different as New York and a swamp.”

“You bloody Yankee!” she spat. She was beautiful in her fury, wild-eyed, flushed, her hair coming loose to stream down around her shoulders.

“Gloves off, Silver?” he taunted, drawing on the cigarette.

“As if I’d want my sister to marry into a family that produced a son like you,” she cried. “I’d rather she died an old maid!”

He looked as if he were going to strangle trying not to laugh. Devil, straight out of hell, she thought furiously.

“Calm down, honey.”

She wanted to attack him. She wanted to get her hands on him and beat him. It was the first time in her life she’d felt such physical rage.

He knew it, too. His eyes glittered with amusement.

“I want to go home,” she ground out, dragging her eyes away from him to glare at the deserted parking lot. She felt tears wetting her long eyelashes, and hated him for being able to make her cry.

“Giving up?” he taunted.

She drew in a long, shuddering breath.

Incredibly, he laid the cigarette in the ashtray and pulled her into his arms. She was rigid and shocked, but he hauled her up against him and began rocking her slowly, gently. She let her taut muscles relax little by little until she could feel the soft swell of her breasts pressed against the warm wall of his chest.

“I won’t go…to Panama City,” she breathed, knowing Jan needed her support, but too afraid of him to risk it.

“Yes, you will,” he said gently, his voice right at her ear so that she could feel his warm breath on her skin. “You’ll go because I want you to go…and underneath, you want it, too,” he whispered darkly.

She pushed against his chest and found herself panicking when she didn’t regain her freedom.

“Oh, don’t!” she pleaded quickly, pushing harder, her eyes widening. “Please, don’t ever do that….”

He let her go immediately, watching her struggle for composure.

“Is it me, or are you that way with all men?” he asked quietly.

“I can’t bear to be trapped or held against my will,” she admitted. “It terrifies me.”

He glanced out the windshield to see Jan and Andy moving slowly toward them, hand in hand, and he cursed violently under his breath.

“Someday,” he threatened softly, “you’re going to tell me why.”

“Don’t bet on it,” she advised, her composure returning with her temper. “If I come to Panama City, I expect to avoid you.”

He smiled dangerously. “You’re coming, all right,” he told her. “If I have to carry you every step of the way.”

“That’s called kidnapping,” she informed him. “It’s illegal.”

“I make my own rules. Didn’t you know?” he asked with magnificent arrogance. “What I want, I get.”

“Not this time,” she said.

“Especially this time,” he returned. His eyes searched hers in the silence of the car and for a moment the world disappeared into their brown, shadowy depths.

She felt a sensation like fingers drifting across her bare skin as she stared back at him. Time seemed to freeze while she fought against an attraction she’d never known before. He was nothing like the picture her mind had formed of him. He was a renegade, an outlaw, a pirate who only lacked a patch over one eye. He was the biggest threat she’d ever faced, and part of her wanted to get out of the car and run. But another part, a nagging part, was intrigued by the budding of a slow, soft curiosity about him.

His finger reached out and touched, lightly, the softness of her bow-shaped mouth; a touch like a whisper, incredibly sensuous, as it eased just slightly between her lips and found the pearly whiteness of her teeth.

She drew back from him with a strange little gasp.

His wide, sensuous mouth curved mockingly. “Tell me you’re coming to Panama City, Margie,” he murmured as the younger couple approached the car. “Or I’ll forbid Andy to bring your sister.”

“You would!” she accused.

“Damned straight. Yes or no? Now!”

“Yes,” she groaned. She looked away.

Andy opened the door and he and Jan climbed into the back seat, both of them smiling and on top of the world.

“Where to now, big brother?” Andy laughed.

“Home,” Cannon said, starting the car.

He let the Lincoln ease to a stop in front of Margie and Jan’s house minutes later and cut the ignition. When they reached the door he turned to Margie, while Andy and Jan said a slow, sweet good night a few feet away.

“I’ll pick you both up at six on Friday morning,” he said quietly.

“If you’d just give me the flight number and the airline…” she faltered, hating her own fear of him.

“Flight number?” He smiled coolly. “I have my own jet, honey. I’m going to fly us down.”

She knew that she was pale; she could feel the blood draining from her face. “I’d rather not….”

“I’ve been flying for twenty years, Margie,” he said with a tender note under the impatience. “I promise you I’m no daredevil when other lives depend on my actions.” He studied her narrowly. “You haven’t flown in a small aircraft since the crash that killed your husband?”

She studied his black tie. “No.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he said in a strange, soft tone that brought her eyes up to his involuntarily.

She was caught in that deep brown web again and a dark sweetness filled her.

“Come with me,” he murmured softly.

She tried to speak, but her breath caught. He was hypnotizing her, he was…

“I don’t have a choice…do I?” she whispered unsteadily.

“No,” he murmured absently. His eyes dropped to her soft, parted lips. “I haven’t wanted a woman’s mouth so much since my souped-up Chevy days,” he said so that only she could hear him.

“That I wouldn’t believe on a bet,” she said, trying to make light of it when her pulse was jumping like a frightened rabbit.

“Wouldn’t you?” He moved a step closer and her eyes dilated wildly. She’d already had a taste of his strength and it scared her. She didn’t want to find out if that sensuous, faintly cruel mouth was as expert as it looked.

“You’d hurt…” she said without thinking. She couldn’t think.

His eyes flashed down at hers and there was a matching wildness in them. “God, yes, I would,” he muttered under his breath. “And you’d fight me like a wildcat, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded slowly, unable to break the silver thread that bound them together. “Tooth and nail.”

“For the first few minutes,” he amended, letting his eyes drop slowly, boldly, over her body before they slid back up to meet her own. “After that…”

She cleared her throat. “I have an appointment Friday….”

“Break it,” he said curtly. “I meant what I said. If you back out, Jan doesn’t come, either.”

She searched his dark eyes, confused, uncertain. “Will you at least listen to me if I come?”

“Yes,” he said, and she knew he meant it.

“Then I’ll do it.”

His lifted his chin slightly. “I won’t promise more than I can deliver, Margie.”

“I never thought you would,” she said with a smile.

He studied her again, his gaze lingering on the bodice. “Maybe I was wrong about one thing,” he murmured.

“What?” she asked.

“The padded bra,” he whispered.

She ground her teeth together to keep from slapping him, but the color in her cheeks was unpreventable.

“You’re outrageous!” she told him.

“Righteous indignation?” he asked mockingly. “Ruffled modesty? I thought you were a liberated woman.”

“You make me feel about thirteen,” she slung at him, and then felt like sinking into the floor for admitting such a thing to such a man.

“Do I really?” he taunted.

“Good night, Mr. Van Dyne,” she muttered, turning.

“No parting kiss?” he asked with dark insolence.





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