Night Whispers
Page 37

Sloan decided not to reply to that revelation. "Your father must have been disappointed when he found out about the trust."
"He was furious, but once he realized that his life was not going to improve unless he made money of his own, he did just that. His was a modest fortune, nothing like the Hanover fortune, and of course half of it belonged to my mother and ended up in the trust. Carter inherited my family's business acumen, and he's increased the Reynolds fortune many times over," she stated with pride. "However, I didn't send for you to discuss Carter. It's Paris I want to talk about. You see, despite everything she was led to believe about your mother and you, she told me last night, she thought you seemed quite nice."
Until then, everything she'd said had been so negative that Sloan was completely unprepared for the praise that followed.
"It is clear to me that you have spunk and spirit, and I'd like Paris to have a little more of that. Perhaps you could keep that in mind when you're with her?"
She broke off at the sound of Paris's footsteps and waited in silence until Paris had pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Your game was off this morning," she said sternly. "You were playing too close to the net. What got into you?"
"I was having an off day, I guess."
"Nonsense. You were trying not to hurt Sloan's feelings because her game is deplorable. Enough about that," she interrupted when Paris started to reply. "I believe you and Sloan are playing golf this afternoon?"
"Yes, we have a tee time later today."
"Good, I want the two of you to spend plenty of time together. What are you planning tonight?"
"Noah wants to take Paul and Sloan and me out to dinner."
"Excellent," she said with an emphatic nod. "Your father has his heart set on a Christmas wedding for the two of you. You need to spend more time with Noah, too."
Sloan didn't want to play golf, and she knew Paris didn't want to marry Noah. Carter and Edith Reynolds apparently had no interest in what those under their control wanted. Sloan wasn't certain what she wanted; she was still reeling with shock from the things Edith had said, and she was anxious to repeat the pertinent parts to Paul. Beyond that, the only thing she was certain of was that she did want to get to know Paris better.
"I need to take a shower," Sloan said to both of them; and then she deliberately smiled at Paris as she stood up. "I, for one, would like to thank you for taking it easy on Paul and me on the tennis court. It was very kind."
"Nonsense!" Edith interrupted. "She should have used the time to hone her skills not let them rust!"
Sloan realized that this old woman was not going to respect anyone she or her son could walk on, even though she took it as her right and privilege to do the walking. "Paris is aware that Paul and I are your guests, and so her first priority would naturally be to make us feel comfortable. I think I read in an etiquette column in the newspaper that this is the first and most important duty of a hostess. Isn't it?" Sloan finished, trying to look innocent.
Edith Reynolds wasn't fooled. "Young woman, are you presuming to lecture me on manners?"
There was something indefinable about her tone; although it was indignant, it was not quite angry.
Sloan bit her lip to hide a smile. "Yes, ma'am, I think I was. Just a little."
"Outrageous girl," she pronounced in a gruff voice that lacked genuine anger. "I can't stand to see you wearing all that dirt another moment. Run along and take your shower."
Dismissed, Sloan started away.
"And don't waste water," Edith called out irritably.
When Sloan was gone, Edith focused her pale blue eyes on Paris. "She is an impertinent young woman. No respect for authority. Little enough for money. What do you think of her?"
Long ago when she was a child, Paris Reynolds had accepted that it was useless and unwise for anyone, including her, to oppose a member of her family. They were indomitable and unforgiving, while she was a coward and a weakling. And yet, in the last hour, she had seen her younger sister stand up for herself and then for Paris. In view of that, it seemed imperative for Paris to now do the same. Nervousness made her palms damp, and she rubbed them on her shorts. "I—I'm sorry, Great-grandmother," Paris said, her voice shaking from unfamiliarity with taking an opposing stand, "but s-s-she—"
"Stop stammering, child! You overcame that speech impediment years ago."
Shaken but still determined, Paris lifted her chin, looked her great-grandmother in the eye as Sloan had done, and announced, "I think she is great!"
"Well, then, why didn't you come out and say so in the first place?"
Unable to answer or endure a lecture, Paris glanced at her watch. "If I don't hurry and take a shower, we'll miss our tee-off time at the club."
"Take a look at the clothing she brought with her," Edith called out "Make certain she won't disgrace herself or us while she's here. She'll be meeting our friends at the club and in town. If she needs clothes, see that she has them."
Paris turned in dismay. "I can't go through her closet and belittle her clothes and tell her they aren't right."
"Of course you can. You have an excellent sense of style. You design clothes."
"Yes, but—"
"Paris! Take care of the matter. And Paris—" she called as Paris started off. "There's no reason to throw money away at the expensive shops here unless you don't have something to lend her."
18
Sloan had no idea how much the FBI knew about her father or his finances, or even what they suspected him of doing, but it seemed important to tell Paul what she'd learned. Frustrated that the information exchange was strictly a one-way street, she knocked on the door to his room. When there was no answer, she went down the hall to her room and discovered its door was locked. She rattled it. "Hello, is someone in there?" she called.
The door opened so suddenly that she stepped back and stared in confusion at Paul, who was wearing shorts and holding her paperback novel with his forefinger inserted between the pages as if to keep his place.
"My room doesn't have a balcony, so I thought I'd borrow yours and read for a while, until you came back," he explained.
Sloan knew he was lying for the benefit of anyone who might overhear them in the hall. She followed him inside and closed the door. "What are you really doing?"
"Checking for bugs. I didn't find any."
The idea of a private home being bugged by its owner seemed preposterous, and Sloan said so.