Part 17 (1/2)

Erotic death. What does that even mean? Erotic I get just fine. When it's right, it's life affirming. Death I know all too well. They have nothing to do with each other.

I snag a flute of sparkling water for her off the tray of a pa.s.sing server. Sipping it, she eyes me over the rim. ”Amelia seems very nice. Not at all like Susannah though.”

”You don't think so?” Marianne tends to have a good take on people. If she's fooled, it's a fair bet everyone else will be, too.

She shrugs. ”I can see a superficial similarity but it's clear she's very different. How did you two meet?”

She got that one in fast but I should have seen it coming.

”Edward introduced us.” I have no compunction about the lie, not on this subject at least. I've already gone to great lengths to bury the truth of Amelia's origins. I'm not about to take any chance of it ever coming out.

”Did he?” Marianne raises an eyebrow. ”That's odd, he didn't seem happy about the two of you being acquainted. In fact for a moment there, I thought he was going to have to wrestle her away from you.”

I can't help but grin at the thought of the two of us tussling over Amelia. McClellan is about my size and in good shape. He knows how to handle himself but I have no doubt who would have won. I fight dirty.

”Don't be ridiculous,” I say. ”Edward's a gentleman. He'd never do anything so uncouth.”

”You're right, of course.” A look of frustration flits across her face. It's gone before I can even be sure that I saw it.

”Edward is always a perfect gentleman,” she says. Her eyes darken. She's staring at something behind me. I s.h.i.+ft slightly so that I can see what's got her attention.

My body tightens. Amelia is standing on the other side of the Grand Foyer between Edward and Adele. A steady stream of people--mostly men--are approaching them, seeking introductions. She looks warm and lovely as she greets each. Nothing in her appearance gives a hint that half-an-hour ago she was pressed up against the wall of an alcove with my c.o.c.k buried deep inside her.

”Do you know how close a cousin Amelia is?”

I'm preoccupied enough that I don't immediately get what Marianne is asking. ”How close?”

With a hint of exasperation, she says, ”Is she a first cousin? Second? Third? Eighth twice removed? Cousin covers a lot of territory.”

The penny drops. I stare at my sister in bewilderment as I realize that she's concerned Edward may be attracted to Amelia.

Hastily, I say, ”First cousin, although Edward thinks of her as a sister.”

Marianne nods but not before I see the relief in her eyes. How did I miss this? When did my shy, reserved sister, who so far as I know has never given any man the time of day, develop an interest in Edward McClellan? And why hasn't he reciprocated?

Edward's always been discreet about his private life but I know for a fact that he's a player. Never a shrinking violet, our Edward. More on the precocious side although to his credit he's always behaved responsibly. Well, except for that time with the circus gymnast...

It occurs to me that he's known Marianne since she was a little kid. Maybe that's the hang up? If it is, I have to hope like h.e.l.l that she isn't about to get her heart broken.

I'm staring at Amelia, trying to figure out why she got as mad at me as she did and how to get around it, when I notice the tanned, silver-haired man approaching her. A surge of adrenalin goes through me. I loathe Charles Davos and have for years. The idea of him being anywhere near Amelia is a red flare.

”Stay here,” I tell Marianne. Davos within touching distance of my sister is equally unacceptable.

She looks bewildered but she trusts me so she does as I say. Now if I can only convince a certain other female to do the same.

Edward sees me coming and frowns but he doesn't object when I nod to Adele and ease her behind me a little as I settle in beside Amelia. I can only gather that he's got his own reservations about Davos.

Amelia glares at me. She isn't just p.i.s.sed, she's flat out furious. And worse. In the depths of those incredible eyes, I see what looks like hurt. That twists my gut but there's nothing I can do about it, not right then.

I bare my teeth and turn to Davos who is staring at me like something he's found on the sole of his shoe.

”Ian,” he says, ”what a surprise. Not off fighting somewhere for truth, justice and the American way?”

I hate guys who think like he does, I mean really hate them. Privileged b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with no thought for anything other than themselves. But Davos is special. My hatred for him is in a category all its own.

”We can't all sit on our a.s.ses, Charles,” I say. ”But these days most of the fighting I do is from right here.”

”Then you really should get out more,” he says with a tight smile. ”Your crudity is an insult to the lady.”

He turns his gaze on Amelia. I really don't like the way he's looking at her. It's too intense, too personal, like he's actually interested in her.

Davos is a handsome guy in a plastic kind of way. He's pus.h.i.+ng seventy but he looks decades younger thanks to surgery, pharmaceuticals, and a complete lack of anything resembling a conscience. He's tanned and fit under the mane of silver hair. I can see why a certain kind of woman might find him attractive, especially when they factor in his bank account.

But all I can see on Amelia's face as she looks at him is distaste. She's trying to mask it but it's there all the same in the narrowing of her heart-stopping eyes and the little downward curl at the corner of her delectable mouth.

”Please don't concern yourself,” she tells him. Her usually soft voice suddenly has a note of steel in it. ”I'm not that easily offended. Besides, I'm well aware of Ian's service to our country. I'd say that's earned him some leeway, wouldn't you?”

It's hard to tell who's more surprised--me or Davos. I'm dealing with the fact that she's gone from kicking me in the b.a.l.l.s, if only verbally, to defending me while he can only frown.

Glancing from one of us to the other, Davos asks, ”You two know each other?”

”Very well,” I say.

”Slightly,” she corrects.

I look at her. She looks right back, not giving an inch. The message couldn't be clearer--however deep inside her I think I've gotten, I've barely scratched the surface.

So far as I'm concerned, she's just issued a challenge. I can't help but smile. If there's one thing she should have figured out about me by now, it's that there's nothing I like better.

Chimes sound. Time for Act III.

When the curtain goes up again, I watch Amelia. She's leaning forward a little in her seat, fascinated by what's happening on the stage. As far as I can make out, the guy--Tristan--has gotten stabbed and is taking a long time to die before the love of his life--Isolde--arrives and sings about how great he is now that he's dead.

Obviously, there's something I'm missing. While I can admit that the music is good, the story leaves me cold. If Tristan had any real b.a.l.l.s, he'd have scooped Isolde up and carried her off somewhere they could screw themselves silly, make babies, and ride off into the sunset together.

What the h.e.l.l? Where did that thought come from? Babies? Sunsets? What? I have got to get a grip on myself, especially if Davos is in the picture. But that's easier said than done. Amelia is lapping the whole thing up, I've got a hard-on to beat all, and the music just doesn't stop, soaring to its conclusion on a note of longing that goes soul deep.

The cast is taking yet another bow when I realize that there's a reason all great romances end as tragedies. It's a lot easier to kill everyone off than it is to figure out how two people can overcome their differences and make a life together.

Especially when one of them is clearly h.e.l.l bent on driving the other crazy.

It's time to rethink my strategy.

Chapter Eighteen.

Amelia Returning from the opera, I'm overcome by weariness. Adele sees that and sends me off to bed with words of praise for how well it all went and a gentle kiss. I'm glad that my grandmother is happy. I just can't imagine ever feeling that way myself.