Part 12 (1/2)

Yet even knowing what Dina had done, he remembered that the decision to leave her had not been an easy one. When he married her he'd expected they'd be together forever. He'd believed in happily ever after, thought he'd made her part of his family.

He'd been wrong.

”I'm not even going to attempt to translate that,” Corrie muttered. ”And for your information, I wasn't about to suggest you put me ahead of your family in the first place. It was Adrienne I was going to name. In case you've forgotten, she is family.”

He felt lower than a drained pond, but it was too late to take back what he'd said. An apology seemed futile too.

”Not even for Adrienne,” he told her. ”I won't let Pop's health be jeopardized by more questions. Forget about finding out what happened back in 1947 and forget about whatever it is Adrienne wants you to do for her. This is all nonsense, anyway. I shouldn't have let myself be suckered into going along with it.”

”It isn't nonsense, and I can't back out now.”

”Corrie, there are no such things as ghosts.”

Sparks seemed to fly out of her eyes. Blue fire. ”You have a right to your opinion, but so do I!”

”All I ask is that you leave my father alone. If you must keep looking for answers, find them somewhere else.”

”Fine!” Grabbing her coat off the hail tree as she pa.s.sed it, Corrie slammed out of the house.

Lucas watched her go in growing despair, uncomfortably aware that, once again, he'd put his father's welfare before his feelings for a woman.

This time it hurt more.

He suspected memories of this particular woman would haunt him far longer than his regrets over the end of his marriage had.

Lucas called himself every kind of a fool. He wasn't married to Corrie Ballantyne. He hadn't even slept with her. What did it matter if he never saw her again? Indeed, life would be much more peaceful if she'd just leave the Sinclair House and never come back.

Refusing to acknowledge the ache that thought provoked deep in his heart, he returned to the study, where Hugh was waiting for him. The older man s eyes were alert and filled with concern.

”Is she right, Pop? Do you know something?”

Hugh struck the N on the computer keyboard. No.

”Would you speculate about it if you could talk to me?”

Hugh struck the Y.

Shaking his head, unable to think of the right questions to ask, Lucas was about to abandon this frustrating, nearly one-sided conversation when Hugh began typing one letter after another, until a question that had nothing at all to do with ghosts appeared on the laptop's small screen.

Do you love her?

”d.a.m.ned if I know, Pop.” Lucas tried to smile at his father and failed. ”I shouldn't. She's been nothing but trouble since she got here.”

Hugh waited, this time conveying the same question with his eyes.

”I could love her,” Lucas finally admitted, ”if I let myself. But somehow I don't think falling in love with Corrie Ballantyne would be a very smart thing to do.”

Corrie was in a bad mood when she got back to her room. Rachel had already left to go skiing. The minivan that took downhill skiers to the nearest mountain made several runs each day, but Corrie saw no point in trying to track down her friend.

Her gaze fell on the bed, and she frowned. The maid had been in. So had someone else. A small, plain brown paper bag had been left on the pillow. Cautiously, Corrie picked it up and peeked inside.

She crushed it closed again at once. Rachel. Up to her old tricks.

But on second thought, the gesture made Corrie smile. She opened the bag and stared at the wisps of black lace it contained. Extracting them with exaggerated care, she examined each of the three pieces of what could only be described as a naughty nightie.

She'd seen the outfit before, in a display at the little boutique she and Rachel had shopped in, the boutique where she'd bought the dress she was planning to wear that night for New Year's Eve.

Trust Rachel, Corrie thought wryly, to decide that lives could be improved by exchanging sensible flannel for lace. Corrie had never been much interested in fancy nightwear. Her taste ran to the practical and warm. But now that she had been given this bit of nothing, she couldn't resist the temptation to try it on.

Hastily slipping out of her clothes, she eased into a tiny triangle that was held across the hips by narrow bands of elastic. The lacy top was gathered at the waist so that it flared over her hips in a tiny skirt. It all but bared her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The third piece, so transparent it hardly qualified as a robe, hid little more.

Color crept into her cheeks as Corrie studied herself in the mirror. The peignoir was outrageously s.e.xy, hinting at more than it actually revealed. And, impossible as it seemed to her, it made her feel . . . excited.

Would a man find it arousing? Would Lucas?

For a moment she let herself imagine his gaze moving slowly over her body, heating steadily. Yes, he'd respond to it, to her. And she wouldn't be wearing it long.

On a low moan, Corrie's lips parted. The woman in the mirror was a stranger, capable of- Startled by the wanton direction of her thoughts, she pivoted. Her gaze fell on the bed, and her blush deepened to crimson.

Tonight was New Year's Eve. Did Lucas still want her to spend the evening with him? The night? She was no longer sure.

A week. She'd known him only a week and her life was in turmoil. She was scheduled to stay only three more nights at the Sinclair House. She wasn't sure she wanted to contemplate what could happen in that length of time.

Even scarier was the temptation to extend her vacation. She wanted to help Adrienne. She also wanted more time with Lucas. She knew already that she'd regret it for the rest of her life if she didn't see things through to some sort of conclusion.

The man had gotten under her skin. It wasn't just l.u.s.t, either. She liked him . . . most of the time.

She wanted to spend the night in his arms.

Where had that thought come from?

She had to wonder. Had it been her own idea? Or had Adrienne put the notion into her head, the way she'd engineered that kiss in the sleigh? In sudden confusion, Corrie stripped off the sensually soft pieces and stuffed them back into their plain brown wrapper.

When she was safely bundled into her comfortable, all-concealing terry-cloth bathrobe, she faced the mirror again. The same old reliable, practical Corrie Ballantyne looked back at her . . . except that there was a haunted look in her eyes.

CHAPTER NINE.

A lounge called the Tavern was located at the bas.e.m.e.nt level of the Sinclair House. It had been turned into the local version of a trendy nightspot for New Year's Eve, with a singer and backup group performing and the center of the room cleared for dancing.

Before their quarrel over questioning his father, Corrie had agreed to meet Lucas there at eight. She needed only a moment to pick him out of the crowd. It wasn't that he was taller or dressed differently, though he did look magnificent in a tuxedo. Some strange, invisible current began to flow the moment they were in the same room together. She felt his presence as soon as she came through the door.

He spotted her at the same instant and smiled in her direction. She hoped that meant he'd been watching for her, antic.i.p.ating her arrival. Her spirits lifted as her uncertainty faded. Whatever had pa.s.sed between them earlier, he seemed glad to see her now.

With long, determined strides, he crossed the room, delayed only twice by the milling crowd. Then he was at her side. ”My dance, I believe.”

When he took her in his arms, Corrie knew not only that he forgave her for upsetting Hugh, but also that he approved of the cream-colored c.o.c.ktail dress she wore. With a warmth that exceeded what he needed to play the suave hotelier, he pulled her closer, moving in time to the music, leading her through intricate steps with practiced skill.