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  She took a bite of salad. "You're mistaken."

  He drained his glass. "You were going to tell me about the evils of drinking."

  "Believe as you wish," she said, piercing a tiny shrimp with her fork.

  "I've heard it all before," he said. "It hasn't stopped me."

  "How wonderful for you—doing exactly as you wish with your life." He was watching her intently and she felt the fool chewing on her salad beneath his watchful eyes. "You're being rude, Mr. McKenna." She put her fork down. "Would you please attend to your own dinner and leave me to mine?"

  "I am trying to figure out exactly what brings you here."

  "Employment."

  "I doubt if the answer is that simple."

  "Oh, but it is," she retorted. "I needed employment and it was offered to me."

  "You came one hell of a long way for a job," he observed, pouring himself some more whiskey. "Wasn't there anything back there in France where you came from?"

  "I don't know," she said honestly. "I was told to take this job."

  "Told? What do you mean told?"

  She placed her napkin on the table next to her salad plate. "I don't wish to discuss it any further, Mr. McKenna."

  "I don't give a damn what you wish, Miss Glenn. I want some answers from you."

  "Don't think you can intimidate me because you are sitting at the head of the table, sir, for I shan't be turned away quite so easily."

  "You're stubborn."

  "No," she said, "I'm determined." She would rather anything than the pain of admitting she had nowhere else to go.

  "Same thing."

  "A subtle but important difference."

  "I'm afraid that difference escapes me."

  "And that is your loss, Mr. McKenna."

  Her stomach was clenched tighter than a fist and her heart pounded so wildly she could scarcely breathe. What a fool she was to think a decent man hid beneath Matthew McKenna's surly and brooding exterior! She was lucky he hadn't poisoned the bathwater. Why couldn't he just keep silent and allow them to eat their meal in peace?

  "You haven't answered my question," he persisted.

  "You're not my superior, Mr. McKenna. I owe you nothing."

  His hand darted out quicker than a serpent's tongue and encircled her wrist. "Playing Stephen's game isn't going to get you anywhere," he growled. "I'll do my damnedest to make certain no harm befalls Andrew." He released her wrist as abruptly as he had snatched it. "And you can tell your little friend exactly that."

  She tossed her napkin down on the table and pushed her chair back. "This has been a wonderful evening," she said, rising, "but I shall be taking my leave."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Out."

  "Don't go down to the beach," he warned. "Arthur saw the poacher's footprints down there again this afternoon."

  "I would much rather dine with the poacher than finish this conversation with you."

  Mustering up every last lesson in deportment the Aynsley School had ever taught her, Alexandra glided toward the dining room door. Pausing for a moment, she turned and looked back at McKenna who still sat at the head of the table, whiskey bottle in his hand, watching her.

  "Oh, yes, Mr. McKenna, there's but one more thing before I retire for the evening." He looked up, his blue-green eyes hooded with suspicion. "From now on I will be taking care of my own bath. If you should dare come near my bedroom again, I will shoot you on sight."

  With that she turned and swept out of the room.

  She would go to the kitchen where she belonged and finish her meal with the servants.

  Unfortunately the gap between her position and that of the household staff was as wide as the gap between herself and Matthew McKenna. Conversation ceased the moment she sat down at the round maple table. Cook and her husband Johnny watched their plates with the rapt attention Alexandra would give to the first act of the latest Gilbert & Sullivan extravaganza. Arthur took his bowl of red broth clam chowder and stood by the window watching the sun setting over the ocean beyond.

  Sadly Alexandra pushed her plate of baked ham and wide flat noodles away and stood up. "I'm sorry, but I am not as hungry as I'd believed myself to be. Would you excuse me?"

  Janine caught her before she reached the door. "Finish up or you'll be awake tonight wishin' for a slice of Cook's ham."

  "I ruined their meal. If I stay here, they'll be the ones awake tonight wishing for the ham. I must go."

  "And where will you go?"

  Alexandra's chin tilted up. "I have yet to see the beach. Perhaps I'll fetch my cloak and take a stroll."

  "Without a bite of food in your stomach?"

  Alexandra plucked an apple from a bowl near the counter. "Satisfied?"

  "Don't be wandering off too far, miss. Johnny saw tracks near the carriage house not an hour ago."

  The infamous Gypsy poacher. "I shall take care. I promise."

  She knew Janine was far from mollified but no matter. The walls of the mansion seemed to be closing in around her and, although the beach of East Hampton was a far cry from the lush meadows of Provence, it was all she had.

  #

  Damn her and her mercurial disposition!

  When Alexandra rose from the table and glided toward the door like a queen dismissing her serfs, Matthew had wanted to jump up, fling her over his shoulder, and drag her up to his room and make love to her as he'd been dreaming of since he first saw her in the hallway yesterday afternoon.

  What kind of woman threatened a man not once but three times within twenty-four hours? Every time he looked at her or dared to speak with her, she threatened to call upon all manner of weapons in an attempt to consign him to an early grave. Her golden eyes fairly flashed with rage when she stood there in that doorway; it wouldn't have surprised him had she called upon the Almighty to show him his place by sending down flood and fire and a twenty year assault of locusts. She treated him no better than she'd treat a homeless mongrel lurking around the back door begging for a bone from last night's mutton.

  He'd let the sight of her, beautiful even in a faded cotton gown, move him in a way he'd believed lost to him. Memories of his mother and the years she'd spent crippling herself on her knees so her children wouldn't run barefoot or go to sleep hungry rushed at him like the oncoming tide, erasing his caution as if it were letters scrawled in the sand.

  The bath had been a terrible idea and he, a fool for thinking of it. What in hell had possessed him to carry the copper tub into her room, to fill it with water hot from the fire, to take that vial of scent from her dressing table and pour it into the bath? He closed his eyes as the smell of wildflowers filled his head again, causing a disturbing rush of blood downward to the part of him straining for release.

  How long could this go on? An endless chain of days and nights snaked before him. Seeing her every morning at breakfast. Watching her with Andrew. Knowing she labored in the hot and airless attic on a thankless job. Wondering if she spent the dark hours of the night wrapped in the arms of a man he hated.

  She claimed she had met Stephen Lowell for the first time just yesterday at the depot in Bridgehampton and perhaps she was telling the truth. He'd grant her that—for the moment. But Lowell was a crafty sort and who better to seduce and control than the girl who would have access to Andrew Lowell's treasures?

  Abruptly he rose from the table, knocking his chair backward onto the polished parquet floor as he stormed from the room in search of her. They were going to have a long talk—and he was going to get at the truth—even if he had to tie her to a chair in order to do it.

  She'd walked out on him for the last time.

  #

  Sea View was perched atop the highest dune in East Hampton, a fact Alexandra hadn't fully appreciated until she made her way down the rickety wooden stairs that led to the beach below. An alarming creak accompanied each step she took and she didn't draw an easy breath until her feet sank into the damp hard sand.

  A huge orange sun was sinking
beyond the horizon, spreading waves of fire across the deceptively smooth surface of the ocean. On the other side of that ocean was the home she'd left. How she wished she could blink her eyes and wake up back in her attic cot at Gabrielle's house, among people she understood and loved. If only Marisa had given her a chance to determine her own fate. But, no—her mother had made up her mind that the best thing for her daughter was to travel across the Atlantic to a strange little town in the middle of the wilderness. Pulling the shawl more tightly around her slender body, she made her way across the gentle swells of sand to the shoreline and began to follow it away from the house.

  One year ago if she had been given the opportunity to work with Andrew Lowell, she would have thanked God and Blessed Mary and all the saints above. At least then it would have been her choice, her life.

  Marisa hadn't even allowed her the privilege of deciding her own future. Now not even the fact that she would be working with a great artist was compensation enough for the deep loneliness she felt. She supposed one day the pain would lessen but right now it seemed as if her heart would be cut in two with it.

  As it was, Janine was the only person she could talk to at Sea View, the only person who cared if she lived or died. Stephen had seemed delightful company but the revelation that he was seeing a married woman in Southold would make it difficult for Alexandra to allow herself that feeling of ease and closeness she longed for with a friend. She had known men like Stephen before, men filled with charm and laughter who made wonderful escorts but nothing more.

  Not that she was looking for anything more than friendship, mind you, but how wonderful it would be to have someone's ear, to be able to open her heart and spill her loneliness and her anger and the terrible fear that she would never, not ever, find her way back to where she belonged.

  This won't be forever, she told herself as she walked along. This can't be. She had been sent here to Sea View to stand on her own two feet and that was exactly what she planned to do. Her mother had washed her hands of Alexandra and so be it. She would earn her keep and save her money diligently and one day she would be able to make her own decisions, chart her own course, live her own life without depending on the whims of others.

  On the whims of men.

  She would make her own security.

  She would create her own happiness.

  Matthew McKenna, with his sun-bleached hair and glittering blue-green eyes, pushed his way into her thoughts. He could be your friend, a small voice whispered. Despite the arguments and accusations, despite the obvious distrust, McKenna had somehow been aware of her needs and had a steaming tub awaiting her in her room.

  Like a ferocious guardian angel, he had been there when she needed him and in a most unexpected way.

  And yet she had fairly singed his curly eyelashes with the heat of her anger at dinner. Despite Janine's protests, she had planned to wait for an opportunity then thank him profusely for the bath he had prepared for her and say she hoped they would be able to start over again without the misunderstandings that had plagued their first meeting.

  But then he had stalked into the dining room with the whiskey bottle in his hand, all rippling rage and fury, and in an instant her back was up like an angry cat's and she fairly hissed her threats at him. What on earth was happening to her—she, who said nary a cross word in all her nineteen years?

  Back in Provence she was the one who wouldn't eat lamb because she grew to love each new baby every spring. Instead of squashing spiders beneath the toe of her boot, she guided them outside with the straw broom even though her hands shook at the thought of them. She wouldn't hunt or fish or let a stray cat go hungry but, with increasing regularity, she found herself threatening another's life.

  She was certain she couldn't exist this way indefinitely but was hard pressed to come up with an alternative. Perhaps tomorrow she would go into town and begin to learn her way around. How could she possibly know what America was like if all she saw of it was the inside of Andrew Lowell's quite unorthodox house?

  How could she possibly understand the demons that drove Matthew McKenna to lose himself in a bottle of whiskey when she couldn't even understand why her mother had sent her away. Tiny waves encroached upon her ankles and she scampered away from the incoming tide. Overhead a small crescent moon had appeared and, with it, a lone star. She squeezed her eyes shut and made a silent wish, praying that God was listening tonight.

  Suddenly a sharp sound echoed off the water, a loud pop that made her start with surprise. She quickly glanced around her and noted that the water was still and as deserted as the beach. Sea View stood sentinel atop the majestic dune, its leaded windows with their countless panes looking down upon her. A campfire burned far down the beach and she wondered if it were the gypsies Janine spoke about with such suspicion.

  Lowering her head against the night sea breeze, she continued heading toward the campfire. Another report split the air and she flinched as a knife blade of wind sliced past her cheek.

  Suddenly walking the beach no longer seemed a very good idea and she turned to head back. Janine's warning about the poacher echoed in her mind and she quickened her step, anxious to reach the wooden stairs at the foot of the dune, when a crack of thunder exploded by her ear as a flash of heat erupted on her shoulder and before she could piece the sensations together she found herself grabbed from behind and thrown to the sand.

  She tried to scream but a large male hand covered her mouth and nose and with the other, he neatly trapped her arms overhead. Her lungs ached from the effort to draw air into them. Another shot rang out and the man's body pressed her more deeply into the cool wet sand of the beach. Never in her life had she felt more helpless, more vulnerable. Not only were her hands rendered useless, but he had her legs wedged between his own. His terrifying strength was evident in the way the muscles of his thighs held her an easy captive.

  "Stop struggling, you fool," he growled into her ear. "Do you want to get yourself killed?" She tried to cry out, to scream that if he intended to kill her he should just get on with it and not torture her but she couldn't draw in air enough to form the sounds. The pressure of his legs against her thighs intensified and her mind exploded with the knowledge that it might be something worse than murder that he had in mind.

  Renewed strength flooded her body and she bucked against him like a wild horse in an attempt to throw him off. He grunted as her knee managed to find its target and his hand moved away from her mouth just long enough for her to sink her teeth into the rough and salty flesh at the base of his thumb.

  Matthew McKenna bellowed like a wounded bull. "Have you lost your mind, woman?"

  She sank her teeth into him a second time and used the distraction that provided to push him off her. Scrambling to her feet she made to flee but he grabbed her ankle and unceremoniously knocked her back to the ground.

  "If you touch me, I'll—"

  "Shut up, woman!"

  He pulled her to him and before she could react, dragged her across the sand to the shelter of some tall dune grass.

  "You'll never get away with it," she managed as her heart threatened to burst through the bodice of her gown. "Janine knows exactly where I am and when I do not return, she'll come for me. If you hurt me, you'll pay, Matthew McKenna!"

  "Hurt you? You're damned lucky I don't kill you." His laugh was harsh against her ear. "Though it seems as if someone else is hellbent on doing that for me, doesn't it?"

  "Don't add lying to your transgressions, McKenna!" she snapped. "You have made your hatred of me most plain."

  "Take a look around you, Miss Glenn. I'm not the one trying to shoot you."

  "No one is shooting at me now," she pointed out, growing increasingly aware of the fact that his large body was pressed against hers in a quite shocking way. "But for all I know, you may be about to strangle me." She could never let him know that the danger she sensed from him at that moment was danger of a very different sort.

  "There's a poacher loose," he s
aid, his breath hot against her cheek. "You shouldn't—"

  "I know," she interrupted. "Janine warned me there were gypsies about." As if that were something terrible!

  "You had no business coming down to the beach by yourself."

  "Should I fear the gypsies?" she asked, baiting him.

  "They're not like us," he said. "Their rules—"

  "I understand their rules," she interrupted. "My mother was a gypsy." No need to tell him Esme was her foster mother; in every way that mattered, that kind woman had been everything good a mother could be. He said nothing and for endless moments they lay together unmoving. From ankle to shoulder their bodies were melded together and Alexandra knew he could feel her heart racing against his chest. The powerful swell of his arm muscles beneath her head made her nearly weak with an emotion she dared not pursue.

  What on earth was the matter with her? Someone had fired a shot that whizzed past her head and here she was, cradled in a stranger's arms, able to think of little beyond the smell and heat and hardness of him.

  "Let me go," she said, forcing herself away from him. "Whoever it was has obviously given up."

  "Wait awhile longer," he said, pulling her closer as the darkness wrapped itself around them.

  "Please," she whispered. "Let me go."

  The touch of his hand on her back changed subtly, moving from angry protection to something else.

  "I didn't do it," he said. "I want you to believe me."

  "From the first moment, you have done all in your power to drive me from the house."

  "Because I have to," he said. "You have no business being there."

  "I have every business being there," she retorted. "I have a position."

  "No longer."

  "It is not your right to retain or to dismiss me." She struggled to break free of him but his grip remained firm. "That right belongs to Andrew Lowell."

  "You've seen him, Miss Glenn. You've seen how it is with him. By the noon hour each day he drifts into illness. How can you expect him to command the situation?" His voice softened. "Give it up," he urged.