Night Whispers
Page 90

She looked at him, her confusion disappearing completely. She swallowed and made her first effort to speak in two days, and Paul braced himself. Her voice was barely a whisper. "What took you so long?" she asked with the barest trace of one of her smiles.
He gave a hoarse laugh and tightened his hand on hers.
"Was I shot?" she asked.
He nodded, remembering the gruesome way it had looked to him when a stray shot ricocheted off something and grazed her head.
"Who shot me?"
Paul leaned his forehead on their clasped hands, closed his eyes, and told her the truth. "I think I did."
She was very still, and then she began to shake with laughter. "I should have guessed that."
Paul looked into her eyes and tried to smile. "I love you," he said.
53
Paris left the hospital at the end of the week and went to her mother's house to recuperate. Paul took vacation days to be with her, Kimberly hovered over her, and Sloan came over every day to visit.
Kimberly and Paris seemed to be thriving, but Sloan was growing thinner and paler by the day, and Paul knew it was because of Maitland.
Since Paul felt the breach was entirely his own fault, he was more than willing to try to heal it for her, despite the fact that he'd been told to stay away from Maitland. What prevented him from doing it was that Maitland refused to see him. Paul had called him twice to ask for a meeting, and the man wouldn't take his calls or reply to the request.
Paul was thinking about all that while Paris, Sloan, and Kimberly were chatting in Kimberly's living room on a sunny afternoon, two weeks after Edith's death.
The doorbell rang, and since no one else seemed to hear it, Paul got up and opened the front door. Staring back at him with narrowed eyes was Courtney Maitland.
"We came to see Paris," she informed him. "What are you doing here? Trying to confiscate the china?"
Paul looked over her shoulder and saw Douglas getting out of the car, and the framework of a fragile idea took shape.
"I'd like to talk to you both privately before you go in to see Paris," he said, stepping outside and forcing Courtney to back up. He closed the door behind him so they couldn't brush past him. While Courtney glared and Douglas glowered, Paul said simply, "I did your family a grave injustice, and I did the same thing to Sloan. I would like to try to make it right with everyone if you'll help me."
Courtney sniffed. "Why don't you just wave your FBI badge and mumble incantations. Isn't that how you make things happen?"
Again, Paul ignored her and addressed Douglas. "Sloan had absolutely no knowledge of what I intended to do with those yachts, Douglas. She had absolutely no idea I was interested in Noah for any reason whatsoever. When she agreed to go to Palm Beach with me, Sloan knew only that we suspected Carter Reynolds of illegal activities. You've read the newspapers. You know he's confessed to everything and that we have Dishler in custody. Dishler is talking his head off."
He paused, trying to gauge their reactions, but he couldn't tell what they felt, so he pressed on: "I was right about Carter. I was wrong about Noah. What matters is that you weren't wrong about Sloan when you thought she cared about all of you. You've heard about what she did—she risked her life to save Paris's. She trusted me, and I betrayed that trust, but I did it out of duty and in the belief she was wrong about Noah and I was right."
He paused again, and Douglas looked at Courtney, as if to see what she thought.
"Courtney," Paul said, "she talks about you to her mother and Paris all the time. She misses you."
"Why should we believe anything you say?" Courtney asked stubbornly.
Paul shoved his hands in his pockets. "Why on earth should I lie about it?"
"Because you're a jerk?" Courtney suggested, but without force.
"I'm obviously wasting my time with all this," Paul said curtly, reaching for the door to open it. "None of you care about Sloan. Just forget it I'm tired of trying to make amends to people who aren't interested."
He opened the door to go inside, but Courtney put her hand on his sleeve. "How much does Sloan miss us?"
He turned back. "Unbelievably. How much does your brother miss her?" he fired back.
She looked down, her loyalties at war inside her head; then she looked up. "He misses her badly enough to be leaving for Saint Martin today, which he doesn't like, and when he's there, he's going to join a bunch of people he doesn't like. Then he's going back to San Francisco to stay."
"Get me in to see him, and I'll try to make him listen."
"He'll throw you out," Courtney predicted delightedly. "He's not in love with you. We need to make him see Sloan, and it has to be somewhere he can't throw her right out."
They looked at each other, arrived at the same conclusion, and walked into the house.
"Hi, everyone," Courtney called.
Her voice made Sloan whirl around in disbelief. "We can't stay long," Courtney continued, hurrying forward to kiss Paris on the cheek. "Cool bandage, Paris."
Sloan looked past her to Douglas, who opened his arms. He hugged her and whispered, "Courtney's going to take you and Paul to Noah. Go with her. If you wait, Noah will be gone. He's leaving in a few hours." He trailed off distractedly, looking over her shoulder, and dropped his arms. "Who on earth is that?"
Sloan was so anxious to leave and so afraid of the outcome that she had to study her mother before she could answer. "My mother. Would you like to meet her?"
"My dear," he said with a slow smile, "I would like nothing more."
54
Noah slid the last sheaf of papers into a briefcase and carried it downstairs to the foyer where his suitcases were waiting to be loaded into the car by his chauffeur.
He stood in the foyer, his hands thrust into his pockets, taking a last look around. He had designed this house himself. He loved the shapes and forms of its rooms, its soaring ceilings and panoramic views. Now, he was glad to be leaving for a while. Wherever he went in the house, memories appeared of Sloan and his gullible obsession with her; they greeted him in its rooms and followed him down its hallways.
He glanced into the living room and saw Sloan there on the sofa, worried about being arrested.
Noah's footsteps echoed on the polished wood floors as he wandered from room to room.
He went through the kitchen doorway and she was there, making late-night omelettes: He who does not help with the cooking does not get to help with the eating, she'd warned.
"Give me an assignment. Make it a tough one."