Night Whispers
Page 75
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"No! It doesn't!"
"Then consider this. For thirty years, she's been an emotional slave to her father and great-grandmother, but you walk in here and in less than a week, Great-grandma starts lavishing you with her brand of affection; then she wants to cut you in for part of Paris's share of her money. Not only have you stolen Great-grandma's love and money from Paris, you've also stolen the man she was supposed to marry. And after all that, you think Paris doesn't hate your guts? And while we're on the subject, don't you find it just a little odd that 'sweet, gentle, timid' Paris would fly helicopters for a hobby?"
"You don't understand her—"
"Neither do you," he snapped. "It would take a team of shrinks to figure her out, and I'd be afraid to read their report."
Staggered, Sloan gazed up at him. "You hate her, don't you?"
"Hate her?" He laughed tightly. "Half the time she scares the hell out of me."
"My God, I think she's half in love with you, and you think she's some kind of monster."
"She's either a monster or a saint, and I don't believe in saints. That leaves the monster."
Sloan shook her head, completely bemused and immensely saddened. "I thought you cared about her. I really did." Sloan couldn't stop staring at him, searching his face for some sort of clue as to the man he really was. "I know this assignment is 'business' for you, but sometimes, I'd catch you watching Paris with a funny smile… almost a tender smile."
"She's easy to watch," he said bitterly. "Look at her—" He tipped his head toward Paris, who was chatting with one of the men. "She's beautiful, she's graceful, she's well-bred. She's a little shy until you get to know her, and then she blooms in front of your eyes, and you think you're the reason."
Sloan was becoming more stunned by the moment She hadn't misjudged Paul's attraction to Paris. He was very attracted—and completely against his will. Sloan found that situation encouraging and amusing.
"Tell me something," she said. "If Paris was all the good things you think she is and none of the bad, sick things you think she is, then how would you describe her?" '
Paul's eyes lifted briefly and unwillingly to the subject of their discussion as she reentered the house. "I'd describe her as a miracle."
Sloan stood up, suppressing a smile. "That works for me."
He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I don't believe in miracles."
Shoving her hands into the back pockets of her slacks, Sloan gazed down at the man sitting in the chair. "Paris is just like my mother—they're like little willow trees. They seem fragile and they bend in the breeze, but you can't break them. They won't let you. Somehow they always find a reason, a way, to go on thriving. You start out thinking they're weak and they need sheltering, and they do. But while you're shielding them, they're sheltering you. My mother baffled me forever, and until now I'd never met anyone like her. But my sister Paris is just like her."
Paul looked at her steadily, debating whether he ought to point out the truth, and then he decided to do it. "You're wrong, Sloan," he said quietly. "That's not Paris. That's you."
He got up and walked away, leaving her staring after him in amazement.
"Mr. Richardson?" Paul turned at the sound of the butler's voice. "You have an urgent telephone call from your office."
Paul hurried up to his room and picked up the phone. It was the call he'd been waiting for, and the news was not only good, it had come a day sooner than he'd expected.
"Paul," the other agent said, using terms that would be meaningful only to Paul while he relayed the news that a federal judge had just signed a search warrant authorizing the FBI to search Maitland's boats. "Sorry to bother you on vacation, but we have great news. The client signed the contract. I have it in my hand. Do you want to wait until tomorrow to countersign it? Or shall I bring it down there today?"
"Today. Definitely today. The Reynolds family won't miss me or mind if I'm gone because there's been a death in the family."
"I heard. So sad." The man paused an appropriate moment to sound as if he cared; then he asked Paul whether he wanted only the FBI involved when they boarded the boats today, or whether Paul wanted participation from the Coast Guard and/or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms as well. "There are a couple details about the group policy I wasn't clear on. Do you want an exclusion clause for smokers?"
"No, don't exclude them."
"What about accidental death coverage?"
"Include that, too. That makes it a solid package. No loose ends, no matter what happens. How soon can you get the package put together?"
"We went ahead with plans in the hopes the client would sign the contract. I can have everything ready in an hour or two if I move fast."
"Get moving. I'll meet you out at the job site and show you around personally. The more daylight we have the better."
Paul hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.
39
Rather than returning Noah's telephone call, Sloan went to see him. She had something to tell him, and she didn't want to do it on the phone.
Courtney had been enrolled in a Palm Beach private school, and it was Douglas who let her in, gave her a reassuring hug, and told her how sorry he was about Edith. "Noah is upstairs in his office, and he'll be very glad to see you." Confidingly, he added, "You may interpret that to mean he's like a caged bear because he hasn't been able to talk to you and find out how you are."
Upstairs Sloan waved at Mrs. Snowden, who occupied a small office next to Noah's.
Noah was on the telephone, carrying on what sounded like an important phone call, when he looked up and saw Sloan in his doorway. "I'll talk to you later," he said, and unceremoniously hung up on whomever he was talking to. He came around his desk and wrapped Sloan in a fierce embrace. "I've been worried sick about you. How are you holding up, darling?"
"Okay," Sloan whispered, her cheek pressed to the reassuring strength of his chest. He'd called her darling, and the sweetness of the word combined with the tenderness in his voice was so touching that Sloan had to fight a sudden impulse to cry.
"Have the cops found anything significant over there?"
"It's what they haven't found that's significant," Sloan said, reluctantly lifting her face off his chest and tipping her head back.
Noah took in her pale complexion and the haunted expression in her violet eyes. "Tell me about it on the way downstairs. I'll have Claudine fix us something to eat. You look like a ghost. I wish you had stayed here last night and let us look after you."
"Then consider this. For thirty years, she's been an emotional slave to her father and great-grandmother, but you walk in here and in less than a week, Great-grandma starts lavishing you with her brand of affection; then she wants to cut you in for part of Paris's share of her money. Not only have you stolen Great-grandma's love and money from Paris, you've also stolen the man she was supposed to marry. And after all that, you think Paris doesn't hate your guts? And while we're on the subject, don't you find it just a little odd that 'sweet, gentle, timid' Paris would fly helicopters for a hobby?"
"You don't understand her—"
"Neither do you," he snapped. "It would take a team of shrinks to figure her out, and I'd be afraid to read their report."
Staggered, Sloan gazed up at him. "You hate her, don't you?"
"Hate her?" He laughed tightly. "Half the time she scares the hell out of me."
"My God, I think she's half in love with you, and you think she's some kind of monster."
"She's either a monster or a saint, and I don't believe in saints. That leaves the monster."
Sloan shook her head, completely bemused and immensely saddened. "I thought you cared about her. I really did." Sloan couldn't stop staring at him, searching his face for some sort of clue as to the man he really was. "I know this assignment is 'business' for you, but sometimes, I'd catch you watching Paris with a funny smile… almost a tender smile."
"She's easy to watch," he said bitterly. "Look at her—" He tipped his head toward Paris, who was chatting with one of the men. "She's beautiful, she's graceful, she's well-bred. She's a little shy until you get to know her, and then she blooms in front of your eyes, and you think you're the reason."
Sloan was becoming more stunned by the moment She hadn't misjudged Paul's attraction to Paris. He was very attracted—and completely against his will. Sloan found that situation encouraging and amusing.
"Tell me something," she said. "If Paris was all the good things you think she is and none of the bad, sick things you think she is, then how would you describe her?" '
Paul's eyes lifted briefly and unwillingly to the subject of their discussion as she reentered the house. "I'd describe her as a miracle."
Sloan stood up, suppressing a smile. "That works for me."
He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I don't believe in miracles."
Shoving her hands into the back pockets of her slacks, Sloan gazed down at the man sitting in the chair. "Paris is just like my mother—they're like little willow trees. They seem fragile and they bend in the breeze, but you can't break them. They won't let you. Somehow they always find a reason, a way, to go on thriving. You start out thinking they're weak and they need sheltering, and they do. But while you're shielding them, they're sheltering you. My mother baffled me forever, and until now I'd never met anyone like her. But my sister Paris is just like her."
Paul looked at her steadily, debating whether he ought to point out the truth, and then he decided to do it. "You're wrong, Sloan," he said quietly. "That's not Paris. That's you."
He got up and walked away, leaving her staring after him in amazement.
"Mr. Richardson?" Paul turned at the sound of the butler's voice. "You have an urgent telephone call from your office."
Paul hurried up to his room and picked up the phone. It was the call he'd been waiting for, and the news was not only good, it had come a day sooner than he'd expected.
"Paul," the other agent said, using terms that would be meaningful only to Paul while he relayed the news that a federal judge had just signed a search warrant authorizing the FBI to search Maitland's boats. "Sorry to bother you on vacation, but we have great news. The client signed the contract. I have it in my hand. Do you want to wait until tomorrow to countersign it? Or shall I bring it down there today?"
"Today. Definitely today. The Reynolds family won't miss me or mind if I'm gone because there's been a death in the family."
"I heard. So sad." The man paused an appropriate moment to sound as if he cared; then he asked Paul whether he wanted only the FBI involved when they boarded the boats today, or whether Paul wanted participation from the Coast Guard and/or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms as well. "There are a couple details about the group policy I wasn't clear on. Do you want an exclusion clause for smokers?"
"No, don't exclude them."
"What about accidental death coverage?"
"Include that, too. That makes it a solid package. No loose ends, no matter what happens. How soon can you get the package put together?"
"We went ahead with plans in the hopes the client would sign the contract. I can have everything ready in an hour or two if I move fast."
"Get moving. I'll meet you out at the job site and show you around personally. The more daylight we have the better."
Paul hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.
39
Rather than returning Noah's telephone call, Sloan went to see him. She had something to tell him, and she didn't want to do it on the phone.
Courtney had been enrolled in a Palm Beach private school, and it was Douglas who let her in, gave her a reassuring hug, and told her how sorry he was about Edith. "Noah is upstairs in his office, and he'll be very glad to see you." Confidingly, he added, "You may interpret that to mean he's like a caged bear because he hasn't been able to talk to you and find out how you are."
Upstairs Sloan waved at Mrs. Snowden, who occupied a small office next to Noah's.
Noah was on the telephone, carrying on what sounded like an important phone call, when he looked up and saw Sloan in his doorway. "I'll talk to you later," he said, and unceremoniously hung up on whomever he was talking to. He came around his desk and wrapped Sloan in a fierce embrace. "I've been worried sick about you. How are you holding up, darling?"
"Okay," Sloan whispered, her cheek pressed to the reassuring strength of his chest. He'd called her darling, and the sweetness of the word combined with the tenderness in his voice was so touching that Sloan had to fight a sudden impulse to cry.
"Have the cops found anything significant over there?"
"It's what they haven't found that's significant," Sloan said, reluctantly lifting her face off his chest and tipping her head back.
Noah took in her pale complexion and the haunted expression in her violet eyes. "Tell me about it on the way downstairs. I'll have Claudine fix us something to eat. You look like a ghost. I wish you had stayed here last night and let us look after you."
